Entity
by Carikube
Summary: Sam’s visions spiral out of control when he is psychically connected to a girl who uses pain to ensure cooperation. Dean struggles to protect his brother, while Sam must find strength within if he is to survive.
1. Chapter 1

**ENTITY (Chapter One)**

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Oh, yeah," Dean Winchester sighed. He lay on his back, naked, silk sheets twisted beneath his tanned, muscular form. His eyes slid closed as a contented smile teased his lips. "Bit to the left, oh, oh… ooooh yeah." He shivered deliciously and his lips parted as wordless delirium consumed him. 

With an effort, the hunter opened his eyes and his lust dazed vision settled on the brunette honey who presently straddled him. Her hips pinned his, her breasts naked and full, while her hands… oh, her hands. Dean's eyelids fluttered.

"Dean," she cooed. "Oh, Ddddddeeean. Ddddddddnnnn."

_What the hell?_

The yoga instructor's husky, sexy voice transformed to a guttural clunking that startled the elder hunter. Dean frantically shimmied back as the brunette transformed before his eyes. Moulded hips and shapely curves morphed into metal limbs with shining bolts, steel plates and a piston-like, pulsating head.

Dean cried out, starting as he felt a hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes, breathing hard as twisted his head to the right. His eyes widened and he gaped at his younger brother.

Sam sat behind the steering wheel of the Chevy Impala. The younger boy quickly retracted his touch, though his blue-green eyes held concern. "That must have been some hell of a nightmare, Dean. You okay?"

"What? Yeah, I'm good." Dean licked his lips and straightened in the seat. He squeezed his eyes shut then opened them again. Robot chick did not reappear. He inhaled and scrubbed at his face. He looked out of the car window at the bland landscape as it flashed past. "Where are we?"

"About five miles out of Bridgeport, Nebraska."

"How long have I been out?"

"Three hours or so."

He surreptitiously considered his sibling, wondering just how much of his X-rated dream he had inadvertently shared. Fortunately Sam seemed preoccupied, studiously focused on driving.

"Big night last night," Dean said around a smirk. "Didn't get any sleep. Rochelle is a yoga instructor?"

Sam's shoulders tensed and his grip tightened on the wheel, but he did not respond.

"We need to improve our flexibility. Yoga class hold any interest for you, geek boy?"

Sam did not look at him but Dean could imagine the exaggerated roll of the eyes. He opened his mouth to continue but the sound of metallic stuttering wiped the smile from Dean's face.

"What is that?" He darted his gaze around, half expecting to see robo-chick leering at him from the back seat.

"What?"

"Are you deaf? Can't you hear that?" Dean squinted at his brother and cocked his head to the side as the metallic stuttering came again. "It's coming from the engine."

"No it's not."

Dean pushed himself up in the seat and cast a suspicious glance toward his brother. The younger Winchester avoided eye contact and Dean swore he deliberately hid behind that scraggy, brown mop of his.

"You need a haircut, Sam," he growled, irritated. He scrubbed a hand across his face, jolted as another grating cough resounded from the engine. The car shuddered and Dean clutched at the seat. "What the hell is that?"

"Nothing. Go back to sleep."

"What have you done?"

"Nothing."

"We're out of gas." He leaned across and ducked to see the gauge.

Sam blocked his view. "It's broken," he stated flatly. He scowled, a guilty, _I've broken your car and I'm trying to hide it_, scowl.

"No it's not. I fitted it myself. It works fine."

"So it's like that EMF walkman piece of crap that you made."

"Don't change the subject. We were down to half a tank when you took over driving. How many miles have we done?"

Sam huffed and shifted in his seat. Dean pinned him with a hard glare as the car shuddered, coughed and died. He rolled his eyes and threw a mock punch at this brother. "Fantastic, well, guess who's walking, Sammy boy."

"It's Sam."

"No dude, it's Sammy. Only a chubby 12 year old would forget to check the gas gauge." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Can's in the trunk, Sammy. Shouldn't take you any more than a few hours to hike into town and back."

Sam glowered at him, but slid from the car, retrieved the can and hesitated by the passenger side door.

"What?" Dean asked as he looked up.

"I don't have any cash."

"What you do with it?"

"I paid for your huge breakfast, wise-ass."

Dean grumbled and withdrew a twenty from his wallet. He flicked it toward his brother. Sam ignored it, reached in and snagged a fifty before Dean could smack his hand away. "Dude."

"I'll pick up lunch as well. What do you want?"

"You know what I want. It's what I always want."

"Tofu burger with alfalfa and a bottle of prune juice."

"You're already skating on thin ice, little brother."

Sam laughed and tucked the fifty into the pocket of his jeans. He scuffed at the dirt with his toe and scanned the horizon.

"What you waiting for?"

"You're looking a little podgy there, Dean. You could use some exercise."

"Nuh uh, dude. You ran the car out of gas, and so you can wear out the shoe-leather. I've got research to do. You know, ghosties to find. There's got to be something around here worth killing."

To demonstrate his point, Dean leaned forward, snagged the newspaper he had lifted from the roadhouse where they had stopped for breakfast, and idly scanned the pages. He felt Sam's eyes on him, and knew his brother wore that patented puppy-dog look. He kept his attention on the paper. "Time's a-wastin'," he said dryly. "And if you move quick you might just beat those." He nodded toward the heavy clouds that slid in from the east.

"Jerk."

"Yeah, yeah, start walking," Dean said. He smirked as Sam turned on his heel and stalked away. The younger man reached the front of the car and turned back. Dean ducked his head, keeping it down until he knew Sam was some distance away, then he flopped the paper to the side, lifted his shirt and carefully scrutinized his gut.

Podgy?

He poked, scowled and tensed his abdominal muscles, then lightly prodded for a second time. He met resistance, the hard wall of muscle. He let his shirt drop and smirked at the slowly disappearing figure of his kid brother. "Podgy, my ass. All muscle, Sammy. All muscle."

When Sam had finally disappeared from view, which took close on twenty minutes, Dean slid from the car.

He located the spare can of gas and the funnel and casually emptied the contents into the fuel tank. He shook his head, bemused that Sam had missed that. The stupid idiot had been the one who had last filled it, admittedly, that had been well over three months ago. They rarely ran out of fuel and if they did, there was a good reason. Sam did not have a good reason.

Running the car empty played havoc with the fuel system, it sucked muck into the lines and Dean knew his baby would be running rough for days.

He glanced back at the road, a sneaky smile curving his lips as the first drops of rain hit his face. Payback had its perks.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Dean dozed, his arms loosely hugged around his decidedly un-podgy middle and a small smile on his face. In the fitful moments between full awareness and true sleep, he recalled the sensuous lips of the yoga instructor that had kept him awake and most definitely passionately delirious the night before. Some of the things she had done just should not be legal.

He melted against the seat, moaning softly as he remembered. Though his body sought relief, he did not give in to the physical need, because Dean Winchester did not jack off in his car on the edge of a highway like some pimply faced nerd boy. No, there were motel room showers for that kind of thing.

He stretched languidly and opened one eye to peer at his watch. He had given Sam three hours, more than enough time for his brother's freakishly long legs to get him into town, to a gas station and maybe even enough to order the burgers and fries.

The unattractive prospect of cold fries outweighed the value he would gain from leaving Sam to trudge all the way back up the highway in the rain with a full gas can in one hand, congealing burgers and fries in the other.

Dean slid from the rear seat where he had been stretched out for the past three hours, popped his shoulder, then clambered behind the wheel and turned the ignition. The engine took a bit to kick over, and when it did catch, it idled roughly, with a throaty throb that sounded a little more tortured than usual.

He fingered his phone, considered calling his brother and telling him to find somewhere warm and dry to wait, and then dismissed the idea as the Chevy misfired.

He cruised into Bridgeport, found the first gas station and pulled in. He scanned the small office for his lanky kid brother, but only a fuzzy headed woman, a kid and the attendant, a weedy teenager, loitered around. No six foot four geek boy.

Dean pulled back into the light mid-afternoon traffic and continued further south. He spotted a burger joint two blocks from the gas station. He pulled in, parked and strolled inside. He expected to see Sam at the counter, or leaning against the wall as he waited for their order. Instead, he found his sibling seated at one of the booths, hunched forward, no doubt demolishing a meal.

"Hey, hang on." He strode over and planted himself beside Sam. He towered over the younger man. "At least play fair, Sam. You were going to leave me to eat cold fries," he started, then the rebuke froze in his throat as he took in his brother's pained expression and the distinct absence of half-eaten food.

He glanced toward the counter then sat heavily on the seat opposite his brother. "Hey," he said, "you don't look so good."

Sam noticed him then and frowned. "How'd you get here?"

"Sprouted wings and flew. What's wrong with you?"

"Headache."

"How long?"

Sam shrugged and stared blankly at the vinyl table top. "Twenty minutes, I guess."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"I ran the car out of gas."

"So?"

"I knew you'd worry and try to thumb a ride."

"And if I had?"

"There's a lot of freaks out there, Dean."

"This is me we're talking about. I can take on anyone. You should have called me." He paused, licked his lips and glanced toward the window. "Anyway, I wouldn't have needed to hitch. We had a spare can of gas in the trunk. Which," he added, "you knew about."

He looked back at his brother, noting with distinct unease that Sam took the admission with barely a flinch. Worried, Dean touched the back of his hand to his brother's forehead. Sam's eyes slipped closed and Dean's concern grew. "You're not burning up. Is it just the headache?"

"Hmm." Sam opened his eyes, blinked and shifted back. He blushed, ducked his head and dug around in his jean's pocket. Dean scratched at an imaginary itch on his arm as Sam dumped several notes and some coins on the table. "I didn't order the burgers," he said apologetically. "And the gas can is by a tree outside."

Dean ignored the money, and he could not care less about the gas can. He frowned as Sam pinched at the bridge of his nose. "Are you going to be okay?"

Sam straightened, rubbed at the back of his neck and stretched. He looked around the small burger joint as though seeing it for the first time. "You gonna order?"

"No."

"It's gone two, you must be starved."

"Not really."

"Not hungry, Dean. You feeling okay?"

Dean ignored the question. "So, what did you see?"

"Huh?"

"The vision. You had one, right? That's what's caused the headache."

Sam shrugged. He pursed his lips and exhaled. "Yeah," he finally said, "but it didn't make any sense. Just a few flashes, like a camera bulb going off in a dark room. Really fast. I couldn't make anything out." He rested one forearm on the table and started playing with the coins. "I don't think it's over though."

"Why?"

"The headache, it's intense. It's not letting up."

"Maybe it's a migraine, not a vision at all."

Sam glanced at him then shrugged. "Yeah, maybe."

"So how long were you going to sit here before you called me?"

"Wasn't going to call you."

"At all?"

"No."

"See that's a problem." Dean strummed his fingers on the table top. "If this kind of thing happens, you call me. Like it or not, Sam, you're vulnerable when you're like this."

Sam's features drew into a scowl and pushed up to stand.

Dean took a deep breath and scrubbed a hand across his face. "If we're not going to eat, we might as well get going. We can still make Belle Fourche by dark."

"You still want to look for that bear?"

"Maybe, there's nothing else to do, and I don't hear you coming up with any better suggestions."

Sam sighed, his expression guarded as he surveyed the restaurant before standing. He winced and kneaded at his forehead as he reached full height, and Dean lightly touched his shoulder. Sam shrugged off the offered assistance with a mumbled, "I'm not helpless."

"I know that. I never said you were."

"You insinuated it."

"No I didn't."

"It sounded like you did."

"Well I didn't. But I have to say, if some freaky vision split my head in two, I'd want you around to back me up."

"You're so full of it. Your head could be half hanging off, blood gushing in great spurts before you'd even consider letting me help you."

"That's different."

"Why, cause you can handle pain better than I can? Cause you're stronger. Cause—"

"Sam, calm down. I never said any of that and I sure as hell have never thought it." He held up a hand, forestalling Sam's retort. "But, c'mon, these visions of yours, they're… they're not something you can screw with. You've had two of them thanks to Max Miller, and I saw how they hurt you. We don't know how bad they could get, or what else could happen while you're getting over them. I'm just worried about what could happen to you."

"Don't."

"Don't what?" Dean exclaimed. "Don't worry about you? Sam, I'm going to worry about you till the day I die. Deal with it." He ignored the indignant scowl and lightly shoved his brother, directing him toward the exit and the car. "Next time this happens, you call me, or I'll give you pain that you'll never forget."

"Just try it, tough guy."

"Don't tempt me, I am older than you, remember."

"And I'm taller."

"You know, that's just wrong. On every level, dude, it's wrong." Dean scowled at the resultant chuckle. He nudged his brother out of the café door, located the gas can and met Sam at the car.

"It's unlocked," he said as he dumped the can in the trunk and moved to the driver's side door. "Sam?" He looked across the hood, suddenly aware that Sam had not moved, nor made any effort to get into the car. Even before he saw his kid brother's face, Dean knew something was wrong.

He rushed around the car and caught his brother as Sam's knees gave out. He tilted the younger boy's head up, wincing as he took in the wide vacant stare, the slack jaw and the thinly veiled mask of pain that had transformed his brother's features. "Ah, shit, Sam."

Sam trembled and his head fell forward onto Dean's shoulder. Dean held his brother, his own heart jack-hammering against his rib-cage as Sam struggled to draw breath. He scanned the car-park, growling as a few patrons from the fast-food restaurant stopped to stare.

"Nothing to see here," he ground out. He fisted his hands and drew his brother closer, shielding him. As the minutes dragged on, Dean's apprehension grew, as did the small crowd of curious onlookers.

Eventually, Sam moaned and a ripple shuddered through him, like an electric shock but without the charge. Dean drew back and hooked a finger under Sam's chin. He saw the first hint of recognition as the vision released his brother. He also saw the start of the pain in Sam's eyes as the resultant headache commenced. "Sammy, is it over?"

"I saw a girl, Dean. A child, she's going to die. We have to go to Perryton."

"And that's where, exactly?"

"Texas." Sam squirmed from Dean's hold and leaned heavily against the car. He slouched for a moment, then pulled open the passenger side door and slid in.

Dean crouched beside him. "You okay?"

Sam subtly shook his head. "We have to hurry. It just killed her parents."

"But it's a vision, a premonition. It hasn't happened yet, right?"

"I think it just happened. Now."

"Shit."

Sam fished for the map, found it and then shakily started to unfold it. Dean took it from him. "You got aspirin?"

"Yeah."

"Take some, you don't look so hot." He closed the door, folded the map out on the front of the Chevy and cast a murderous glare at the few onlookers who still dared to loiter around. That moved them. He traced his finger across the map, found Perryton and tracked out a route. Even with back roads, it would take well over six hours. He informed Sam as he slipped back into the car. The younger man's expression hardened.

"She can't die, Dean. She's just a child."

"What do you think did it?"

"I didn't see."

Dean started the engine and eased the Chevy from the parking lot. "What did you see?"

"Knives suspended in mid air, like some freaky Jacky Chan movie. A man and a woman, the girl's parents I guess. Something sliced them up. God, it was horrible. They didn't have a chance, man. I can't stop it, I can't change it, so why make me witness it, Dean? Why do I have to see it?"

"I don't know."

"If the girl dies, will I have to see that too?"

Dean flinched at the rawness of his brother's voice. "We'll get there in time, Sam."

"It's six hours, man."

"I can cut that down a bit."

"What if it's not enough?"

Dean checked his brother again, not liking the paleness of his face or his weary defeated tone. "Have you taken the aspirin?"

"Yeah."

"Hang in there, things will be better once the headache goes. You'll see."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Problem was, Sam's headache did not go. It got worse. Immeasurably worse.

Sam slouched in the passenger seat of the classic Chevy, his long legs folded at the knees, his head tilted back and eyes closed. He breathed raggedly, lips tight and jaw clenched. His hands, fingers white knuckled, balled into fists against his thighs.

"Would another couple of aspirin help?" Dean asked, knowing that the offer would bring Sam dangerously close to an overdose.

"No."

Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel and sucked in a breath. "Sam, this isn't normal." He raised one eyebrow as the absurdity of that remark struck him. Since when was his kid brother having premonitory visions normal. He soldiered on. "You've been sick ever since we left Bridgeport, that's over five hours ago. You weren't this bad after Max. I think we should get you checked out, in case it's something else. Something, you know, medical."

"No."

"No?" Dean snorted as he raised one eyebrow. "Right, _Doogie Houser_, and you'd know that how?"

"It was a vision." Sam turned his head a little to the side, opening his eyes to stare numbly at the rain-grayed countryside. One hand repetitively kneaded at his thigh. "Can't you drive any faster?"

"I'm doing 100 and don't change the subject."

Sam's focus remained resolutely on the featureless landscape that flashed in a dizzying blur beyond the passenger window. Flat, boring plains stretched for miles on either side of the road. And the back-road that Dean had chosen as a short-cut did not even boast traffic, houses or any form of visual anomaly to break the monotony. Hardly fascinating stuff.

"You listening to me?"

"Unfortunately."

"Good. Listen up, college boy. Your whole vision theory has one big hole in it. These Uri Gellar episodes have never crippled you like this. I know you're hurting, Sam, and unless you can give me some solid reason not to haul your ass to the nearest ER, that's exactly what's going to be happening. You're not having an aneurysm on my watch."

"Enough already," Sam said tiredly. "It's a headache. I'm fine."

"Bullshit. You look like crap."

"Nice."

"Yeah, well."

"Just drive."

"Aneurysms are bitches and you can't mess around with one, Sam. They can get pretty nasty."

"I'm not having an aneurysm."

"You have had a few knocks to the head recently."

"Head injuries don't cause aneurysms," Sam rasped. He shifted in his seat, pushed back then twisted side-wards. He stilled after a moment and exhaled loudly.

"You okay?" Dean asked. He frowned as Sam kneaded at his brow. Dean lifted his foot from the accelerator.

"Dean."

"Don't say you're fine, Sam. Don't you even try." He slowed the car and checked the rearview mirror. Grey nothingness gnawed at the back window, the open hollowness of the desolate highway stretching for miles before them and miles behind. His hand tightened reflexively on the wheel.

"If the address doesn't check out, I'll go the ER," Sam quietly conceded.

Dean bit his lip and checked the odometer. Stratford lay twenty miles behind them, Perryton sixty miles ahead. A whole heap of nothing lay in between. He cast another worried glance at his brother. Sam had tilted his head back, the dull light making his skin look sallow, the sockets of his eyes sunken. Sweat shone as tiny threaded beads against his pale face, and as Dean watched, a thin trickle of blood wove from Sam's left nostril and inched toward his lip.

"Shit," Dean exclaimed. He rode the brake to safely decelerate.

"Dean?"

"You're bleeding." He leaned over and wiped a thumb across Sam's upper lip. He held the offending digit up for his brother to see. "I'm taking you back to Stratford."

"No."

"No longer up for discussion," he said tightly. He gunned the engine and spun the wheel, initiating a tight U-turn. The Chevy rocked to the side and Sam grunted as the shift in pressure forced his body side-wards.

Dean expertly cleaned the maneuver, pulled the car back to the blacktop and nosed it back the way they had just come. The hiss of tires against the scoured bitumen was the only sound for several miles. Dean flexed his arms and pressed back in the seat. He started as he felt a touch on his arm. "What?"

"We can't—"

"Shut it."

"Dean."

"No, Sam." He clenched his jaw as blood appeared at Sam's right nostril, hugged the contour of the young man's upper lip before dodging down with a darkly vicious shudder. Sam frowned, reached a shaky hand to his lip and touched at it. Dean's stomach turned. He resolutely turned forward, forcing the accelerator harder to the floor until the needle reached 100 then shuddered forward. He felt the vibration as the classic engine throbbed, clawing up the blacktop with a comforting ferocity.

"You're going to be fine, Sam. Just hang in there."

"No, no, Dean. You have to turn around."

"We'll call the local authorities, they can check on the kid. This is not our problem. It's not your problem." Dean checked the mirror again, releasing a tense breath as deserted road reflected back.

"You don't understand."

"Where the hell are the cops when you need them? Freakin' taxes at work, my ass." He patted at his jacket pocket, scowling as his brief search failed to locate his phone. "You got your phone?"

"Stop."

"Your phone, Sam?"

"Dammit, Dean, stop."

Dean's breath caught. He risked another look at his brother, his heart climbing halfway out of his chest as Sam curled forward, his blood smeared hands twisted in his hair. Tears stung Dean's eyes and he forced himself to breathe, to look away, to concentrate on keeping the car on the road.

Again he checked the mirror, a cold hopelessness settling deep in his gut at the isolation that reflected back. The short-cut had seemed like such a great idea twenty miles back. Hindsight was one big freakin' joke.

Dean started as Sam grabbed his wrist. He cursed and drew it back, succeeding only in jarring his shoulder as Sam's grip tightened. Dean felt the bones grind together and he clenched his jaw, cursing as he struggled. "Dammit, Sam, let me go."

The grip on his wrist squeezed, crushing and Dean grunted. He struggled to keep the speeding car on the road, forced to loosen the force on the accelerator as Sam's grip tightened impossibly further. "Son of a bitch," he ground out as the pain roiled his stomach. "When did you get so freakin' strong?"

"Hurts."

"I'll say," Dean breathed. "Sam, c'mon, I'm taking you to the hospital, even if I have to knock you out in order to get you there." He jerked at his arm, then stilled. "Fine," he ground out, "if that helps, then I'll deal with it. But wouldn't biting down on a stick achieve the same effect?" He coughed as pain burned through his forearm. "Uh, yeah, the things I do for you."

"We have… to go... back."

"No."

Sam gasped, suddenly going rigid in his seat. His fingers snapped open and Dean wrenched his wrist away. Sam screamed, then made a gagging, choking sound as though he was asphyxiating on his own breath.

Dean flinched, curled both sets of fingers around the wheel and pushed the Chevy harder. The needle stuttered and moved beyond 105.

"Dean, you're... killing… me."

"I'm saving you, Sam."

"No. Dean, please… please."

Sam's raw plea and the inherent conviction beneath it shocked Dean. Sam did not beg. He demanded, he argued, he fought and occasionally he sulked, but he did not beg. Bile licked at the back of Dean's throat and an almost dizzying nausea forced him to ease off on the accelerator. Beside him, Sam continued to bleed.

Doubt struggled like a maddening beast within the elder hunter. He nudged the brake. The needle dipped below eighty and kept sinking.

Medical or supernatural? With Sam, it was probably the latter… but he could not ignore Sam's pain, and he could not ignore the bitter reality that if the cause was supernatural, then delivering Sam to Perryton would be delivering his brother up on a silver platter to something that no doubt meant him harm.

He glanced at his brother, his heart twisting as Sam began keening. Blood covered the younger man's chin and trickled down his neck.

"Jesus, Sam." He cupped a hand to the back of his brother's neck. The skin felt cold, clammy. Sam curled forward, the seatbelt taut against his chest. The speedometer needle sank lower as Dean struggled with uncertainty.

"Please."

"I'm taking you to Stratford hospital," Dean said. He pulled away, clenched his hands around the wheel and pumped the accelerator. The needle nudged forty and began rising. "If you check out okay, then we'll go to Perryton. Not before."

Sam's hand flashed out, caught Dean's wrist at the joint and yanked. Dean didn't have time to release his grasp from the steering wheel and the sudden drag wrenched the wheel to the right.

Dean's jaw dropped and his heart leapt into his throat. In the very same sickening moment, the tires lost traction. The steering wheel burned out from beneath his left hand. Grunting, Dean tightened his fingers, gripping but not quite holding. The jet black Chevy slid into a sideways skid, lilted for a moment in a gloriously stomach-turning hiatus that widened Dean's eyes, then momentum roared back and they were airborne.

**End Chapter One**


	2. Chapter 2

**ENTITY (Chapter Two)**

"What— what the hell was that?" Dean blurted out. He stared out the windscreen at the dirt road that led to hell knows where. They had come off the main road, metal-winged it over a ditch and landed hard on a secondary dirt road. Dean had gathered his stunned wits at that point and wrenched the wheel out of a spin, managing to gain traction in the loose gravel before sliding to rib-cracking stop in the centre of the secondary road. He released a hard breath and jerked his attention to his equally stunned brother.

"Sorry," Sam whispered, his wide eyes locked with Dean's. "I didn't mean—".

"Sorry?" Dean hacked out a derisive laugh, shoved his door open and extricated himself from the car. He ducked his head back into the cab. "You got a death wish? Christ, Sam. Jesus fucking Christ."

He paced from the car, unable to still the violent trembling. He made it several steps before he spun and stalked back. He wrenched Sam's door open. "Out."

Sam stared dumbly. Dean growled, grabbed his brother's arm and forcefully hauled him from the car. Sam melted against the Chevy, an agonized groan escaping his lips. Dean released him. He breathed hard, his hands shaking. "You're riding in the back."

"Dean."

"Get in the back."

"You can't take me back to Stratford."

"Would you rather I left you to bleed to death in the car? You know what, don't answer that. Back seat, Sam, and don't try anything. I'll tie your damn wrists together if I have to."

"She's in my head, Dean. The girl I saw in the vision. She's scared and she needs me. I think she's connected with me somehow and…." He kneaded at his brow, then wiped with shaking fingers at the blood that trickled from his nose. "The hospital can't fix this, Dean. And if… I don't know how much more I can take."

"You just made me crash the car," Dean said. He gesticulated to the Impala as his voice rose. "This eloquent speech might have worked better, hell, let's say somewhere before you almost killed us."

"I didn't mean to cause a crash."

"Well you did. So now what do you want me to do? You've got my attention, what the fuck do you want me to do?"

"Take me to Perryton," Sam answered simply.

Dean clenched his fists, glared at his brother then prowled to the front of the car. He paced the width of it, clenching and unclenching his fists. His jaw ached with tension. They could not return to Stratford. Dean now knew that, but he wanted Sam to wilt under his rage – to agree to medical intervention. Dean could deal with an aneurism, he could deal with a shaven-headed Sam, a belligerent and whiny Sam, a drugged to the eyeballs Sam, but Sam. This he could not deal with.

Dean sucked in a pained breath. When he finally exhaled, his body weakened and he sagged. He returned to Sam and crouched before him. The younger man sat on the ground with his head down and knees drawn up.

He touched the younger man's knee, dismayed to see his own hand shaking. He settled it and gently clasped. "What happens when we reach Perryton? To you, I mean. This connection the kid has with you, what if it's not help she's after, what if it's something else? What if there isn't even a kid?"

Sam looked up, his eyes, pain glazed and dizzied, glistened with tears. "I don't know. I just know there's a child that needs us."

Dean retracted his hand and gestured toward the misted fields. Rain now fell in a light, frustrating fuzz that obscured the decidedly shitty vista and did little to help Dean's souring mood. "I don't find that particularly reassuring," he said darkly.

"I don't have a choice."

"How do you know that? How can you possibly know that?"

"I know, Dean. I just know."

Dean's mouth went dry. Something caught in his throat and he swallowed convulsively. "Like you knew there was something in our old house in Lawrence?"

Sam nodded fractionally and his mouth pulled down. "We need to go."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, with all the enthusiasm of man facing the firing squad. He pushed to his feet. "I'll check the car. You okay here?"

"Hmm." Sam closed his eyes and rested his head against the Impala's door. Dean hesitated. "Are you hurt, I mean… in the crash?"

"No."

Dean accepted that, though the younger boy's pain tightened features made him ache. He quickly checked the car and found it relatively undamaged. No crumple zones and pissy suspension to collapse on impact. He stuck his head under the bonnet, satisfied that all seemed to be in order. He ducked his head back up, surprised to see Sam standing, albeit clutching at the passenger side door. He had a waxy, pasty look on his face.

"You gonna puke?" Dean asked as he reached his brother's side.

"I think…."

"Okay. It's okay. It might help."

"Car."

"You'll be washing it if you puke on it."

Sam bowed his head and clutched at Dean's jacket. He listed and Dean reflectively braced his hands against his brother's upper arms, using the leverage to gently ease Sam back against the car. He sensed Sam's knees weaken and tightened his grasp, bracing his kid brother between his own body and the Chevy's rear door.

"Don't fight it, Sam. If you need to, you need to."

Sam groaned and clumsily pawed at Dean, alternately pushing and pulling. Dean tightened his grasp. "Easy, it's okay. You're okay." Lies, falsehoods and other bullshit. Sam presently defined the word misery. He was far from okay.

"God, I hate… this," Sam said, then abruptly broke from Dean's grasp, took two staggered steps and dropped to his knees. He groaned miserably, his face a sickly shade of washed-out grey, before he hunched forward and retched.

Dean reached out, then winced and looked away. He shoved a hand through his short dirt-blonde hair and scanned the horizon. The misty rain picked up, washing out the landscape and blurring contour and form. Shitty nothingness for miles all round. He shivered and wiped at his face as he risked another look at his brother.

Sam knelt in the same spot, his jeans soaking up moisture from the muddied ground. As Dean watched, Sam spat and shakily swept the sleeve of his shirt across his mouth. He had not yet thrown up, and Dean almost wished he would. It might give some well needed relief.

Sam leaned back, raised his head and wearily considered his surroundings. He squinted, his shoulders tense. Dean retrieved a bottle of water from the Impala and offered it to him. Sam took the water and gingerly swallowed a few times. He looked no better than he had, but the convulsive swallowing seemed to have stopped.

"We gotta go," he said tiredly.

Dean helped him up and guided him to the car. "Is this freaky kid in your head like Ellicot was?" he asked as he held the door open.

Sam slid in. He shirked down in the seat and rested one hand on his stomach. "You need to get headrests fitted, Dean."

Dean raised an eyebrow and made his way around to the driver's side. He slid in and eyed his brother. Sam had turned to the side, facing Dean, his arms hugged around his stomach and his eyes partially closed.

"You okay?"

"No. Can we go?"

"Headache?"

Sam's eyes closed. "Dean."

Dean started the engine. "Isn't it a bit convenient that you saw an address on an envelope? I mean, this isn't a kid we're dealing with. It's some freakin' fugly critter that's gonna soon have an ass full of rock-salt."

Sam grimaced and clutched at his head. Something far too close to a whimper reached Dean.

Dean swallowed hard. He touched Sam's shoulder and squeezed gently. "We can still get you to the hospital, get you checked out just in case—"

"No."

"Cos if you're wrong and your head explodes…."

"No."

Dean's eyes watered and he bit down on his lip. He retracted his touch and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Okay, okay," he said, then turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. He cocked his head, cursed and tried again. Sam's foot started a low, staccato tapping on the floorboard. The starter motor clicked, turned over and the engine fired, coughed and died.

Sam groaned and fisted a hand in his jacket, the knuckles white. "Can't you make it go?"

"I'm trying."

"Try harder." Sam sounded desperate. Scared.

He turned the key and held his breath as the engine spluttered and clicked. It did it two more times before Dean slammed his hand against the steering wheel. "Son of a bitch."

"Dean?"

"Hang on."

He popped the bonnet again and ran a second visual check. He spied the loose wire, cinched it back in place and dropped the bonnet. He slid into the driver's seat, pumped the accelerator and turned the ignition. The engine caught first kick then purred flawlessly. "That's my baby." He shifted into drive and eased the car from the dirt track and back to the blacktop.

"Just so you know," Dean said, his tone deliberately casual. "If you pass out, I'm taking your ass straight to the nearest ER. No stopping off to Render Street, Perryton for some freaky mind-bending kid."

"Just drive, Dean."

"Okay, just thought you should know, is all."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Sam did not lose consciousness but Dean suspected it had more to do with the thing that had a hold on him rather than Sam's own fortitude. Regardless, it left Dean unable to follow through on his threat to deliver Sam to an ER, and all too soon they arrived in Perryton, Texas. Darkness had fallen and the rain had eased. Dean's sour mood had darkened along with the descending night.

As Dean brought the car to a smooth stop in front of a house two doors down from the one Sam had identified in his vision, he ached to smash something, to kill something. Breathing hard, he scanned the house. It stood quiet and dark, the curtains pulled open but no lights shone forth. Dean knew the thing was in there. He felt it in the suffering that leached from his kid brother, the stench of his sweat, of his blood and the hideous grating breaths that seeped from the tortured boy. The need for revenge throbbed rich and hot in Dean's veins. He allowed his gaze to skim over his brother's huddled, shuddering and pain-wracked form and his murderous rage escalated.

He drew in a calming breath and touched Sam's shoulder. Sam moaned softly and Dean's stomach twisted. "Stay here."

If Sam heard him, he did not respond.

Dean prowled to the rear of the Impala, hoisted a bag full of weapons to his shoulder and peered up and down the street. Stinking suburbia met his heated gaze. Neat white painted houses, porch lights on to greet suit-clad husbands or wives returning to their whining toddlers and raucous barking dogs. He slammed the trunk, hunched his shoulders and moved toward the house.

He gained entry to the house via the rear window and found himself in a bedroom, the bed neatly made, a soft toy dog carefully placed on the pillow. He ached to shoot the stuffed animal on principle alone. He did not – it would make too much noise. He braced the shotgun, his fingers clenched tightly around the weapon as he moved quietly through the house. His passionate anger ripped away as he came across the kitchen. He gagged and hurriedly retreated, his flight instincts in over-drive. He backed into the opposite wall, his stomach churning. He clutched the weapon, his fingers grasping and ungrasping reflexively.

"Christ," he gasped. His vision blackened and his knees weakened. Sam had seen that – had seen it happen. All of it. Dean swallowed back bile and pushed off from the wall. He shakily re-entered the kitchen. Immediately he gagged and covered his mouth, his squinted eyes taking in the brilliantly bloody display.

Blood liberally hung from the ceiling – long mucous-like strands tethered by jellied blobs that vaguely resembled human organs. One particularly pleasant looking strand might have been the wall of an intestine, but Dean did not look long enough to confirm his suspicion. He swept his gaze over the walls, the floor, the windows and dried blackened blood reflected back from all surfaces. Dean's eyes shifted restlessly as he struggled to fix on something that did not threaten to bring his breakfast up through his oesophagus. His nostrils flared as the metallic stench invaded his sinuses.

He covered his nose with one forearm and reviewed the scene before him with as much distance and objectivity as he possibly could. Body parts lay strewn, some hacked into barely recognisable chunks while others seemed almost lifelike in their entirety. Every cutlery draw had been torn open, the contents emptied and splayed across the kitchen. Carving and paring knives protruded from walls, from cupboard doors, even from the faceplate of the microwave oven. Dean counted twenty, every one of them stained with gore.

Beneath the table, the top decorated with a neatly placed setting for four, protruded a single sneaker clad leg. Dean fixed on it and almost whimpered. He forced his recalcitrant limbs forward and crouched, hand over mouth, as he lifted the tablecloth back and up. Nausea assaulted him and gagged and turned his head away.

He retreated then – no lives to save, no fugly critters to nail with a gun barrel full of rock-salt. He moved back through the house and methodically searched every room. Photos in the living room showed the family prior to their deaths – apple-pie Texans with a blue eyed, brown haired daughter. He memorized the child's features.

Upstairs, he searched the two bedrooms and a bathroom. At the end of the hallway, he turned back, prepared to continue. He took a single step and stopped, forced into inactivity with the realization that he had no more rooms to search. Nothing else to find. No kid. No chainsaw massacre wannabe. No way to end Sam's pain.

It hit him suddenly and forcefully – an image of his kid brother, barely conscious and bleeding, in the passenger seat of the Impala. Finding the house, the son of a bitch responsible for torturing Sam, and killing it had been Dean's plan. Now, he had no plan.

Dean fell heavily against the wall and slid down, his head in his hands. He shuddered, struggled to breathe, to find enough energy to start the search over though he knew it to be a pointless exercise. His breath whistled as his sinuses clogged. He tilted his head back and deliberately cracked his skull hard against the drywall. Again and again until the pain muddied his vision and the tears blurred. He stopped, stared up, choking on his own desperation. His bruised consciousness took a moment to recognize what he saw, then his eyes narrowed and he sat up. "Son of a bitch," he said softly.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Sam's pain-dulled consciousness jolted with a sharp energy that tore a scream from him. His body convulsed, his heart shocked into a wild palpitation. Panicked, he held his breath as he fought to retain some thread of consciousness. As he started to go under, the pain vanished, leaving the young hunter breathless, stretched out, his raw nerves misfiring with a static-like pain. He languished under it, weak and hurting, his breaths slow and shallow as his heartbeat gradually normalized.

His dulled gaze tracked slowly. Gradually, sensations breezed back. Cold came first. He shivered and muscles in his side cramped. Nausea chimed in next and the bitter taste of bile forced a reaction. He reached out blindly, bashed his knuckles into the doorframe of the Impala before finding the door release. He tugged it as bile stung the back of his throat. His knees hit the grass before his brain registered that he had left the car. He threw up, disoriented and half blind. Needles of cold air cut through the sweat soaked clothes, pinched at the dried blood on his face and whipped at his hair.

He hugged his stomach with one arm, the other braced against the ground to stop from falling face first into his own sickness. He spat and swallowed, curling in on himself as another spasm tore through his gut. On one level he understood the physical sensations but overall he understood very little. His brain malfunctioned, circuits fried, memories a jumble of pain and confusion. He retched again, the spasm driving deep through the muscles of his abdomen and knifing a cold, sharp pain across his lower back. He sobbed, unable and unwilling to take any more. It had to end. Mercifully, it did.

Panting, he raised his head and squinted into the darkness. Houses, cars, pale street lights and somewhere close a dog barked. His breath hitched. He scanned the shadow veiled suburbia for his brother, the first thread of conscious panic skating over his chilled flesh as two shapes appeared from the darkness. Loping, one tall and one shorter. Sam fell back. He blindly grabbed at the Impala's passenger side door.

"Dean?" he called, his voice plaintively panicked. He craned his neck, searching in and around the car for his brother. His hand slipped against the cool metal. He half-fell, his breath whistled and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

The taller figure carried a gun that swung loosely with each loping stride. Sam sidled back – a fumbled crab-crawl that pushed him hard against the Impala.

"Dean. Dean!"

He licked his lips and blinked hard to clear the dizzying fog. Too much pain for too long left Sam with no reserves to fight or flee and he languished beneath the catastrophic weakness.

"Dean," he called again, but the name choked out as a torn whisper. He drew his knees up, trying to draw into himself, to make himself less of a target. The taller figure skidded to a stop before Sam and the weapon clunked to the ground. Sam's attention flicked to it, numbly fascinated then he flinched and raised his arm higher, protectively. "Don't," he warned.

"Sam."

"Dean?" Sam gaped and squinted.

"Sammy, you okay?"

Sam choked on a relieved sob. His arm dropped like jello into his lap and he melted against the Chevy. "Oh, God, I thought—" He licked his lips and shuddered. Dean dropped to one knee and Sam finally focused well enough to see his brother's face. Dean's normally stoic mask had slipped, revealing wide-eyed anguish and fear. It broke Sam and he could not bite back the sob that escaped his lips. He grabbed at Dean's jacket like a life-line, fisting his hand in the leather. He panted roughly, tears building in his eyes.

"Sam?" Dean sounded scared. "Are you hurt?"

Sam shook his head, his throat constricting. He tightened his grip, crushing the soft fabric between his fingers. His eyes watered and he lowered his gaze as he tugged his brother closer.

Dean hesitated, then leaned in. He grasped the nape of Sam's neck, gently squeezing as he drew Sam's head down, dropping his own until it met his brother's crown. "It's over, Sammy. It's over."

Sam trembled, gripping his brother's jacket for all he was worth. He hunched his shoulders and willed himself not to cry, not to break down, not to completely fall apart. With an effort, he unfurled his fingers from his brother's coat. He patted at it, but could not entirely let go.

Dean drew back, his eyes suspiciously moist. "Can you get up?"

Sam shrugged, not trusting himself to speak.

"Sam, you need to try," Dean encouraged.

Sam glanced over his shoulder and noticed someone with his brother. He tried to see, distracted as Dean extended a hand toward him. He shakily took it, grunting as Dean hefted him up. The effort exhausted the younger hunter and he listed, his chin resting on Dean's shoulder and his eyes slipping closed. He felt Dean shift around and the change in balance forced Sam to move. He bowed his head, his mind spinning in viciously nauseating circles. He had taken one small step when he grabbed at his brother again. "Stop, stop." Dean did, but the damage had been done. Sam groaned as vertigo roiled his stomach and cruelly splintered his fragile consciousness. He felt his knees give way. He managed a soft apology before he crumpled, his mind blackening.

**End Chapter Two**


	3. Chapter 3

**ENTITY (Chapter Three)**

* * *

In El Reno, Oklahoma, Dean Winchester sat on a paisley couch in an orange and lime green walled motel room, the nauseating color scheme helping to keep the elder hunter awake. He idly flicked through their father's journal and surreptitiously monitored his sleeping brother. As though able to sense the observation, Sam rolled in his sleep and his feet twisted in the blanket Dean had lain over him. The younger boy fidgeted, murmured wordlessly then sighed and stilled. Dean caught sight of the dried blood on his brother's face, and a sharp, painful twinge drilled through him. He fisted his hands and his gaze slid to the left, to the second bed and the figure that lay in a deep slumber upon it. 

His jaw tightened as he considered the dark-haired child. He drew his attention down to the EMF meter on the couch beside him and, for the tenth time in as many hours, Dean flicked it on and held it toward the girl. The needle did not even flicker, did not even move. He released a tense breath and switched it off. He placed it beside the small bottle of holy water. His attention lingered there, indecision and an unwillingness to confirm his fears causing him to hesitate, to question his thoughts, his hunch. Exhaling heavily, he lifted the bottle, uncapped it and moved to the second bed. He shook several drops onto the child's exposed skin, the tender flesh of her inner wrist. His hand shook and he held his breath. She shifted in her sleep and Dean shifted back. But then she stilled and her flesh did not pucker, did not fizz and sizzle. Dean released a breath, but the uneasiness remained. He recapped the bottle and moved to the window. He nudged the curtain aside and looked outside.

Early morning darkness cloaked the exterior of the motel in a heavy shroud, the few flickering globes spaced unevenly along the walkway doing little to beat away the night. Dawn lay several hours away, but the rain had cleared and the resultant chill had formed a fine mist on the Chevy. Dean scrubbed at his eyes, the lenses scratchy, his body worn. He let the curtain fall and turned back to the room. His attention skimmed over the girl, then fixed on Sam. That painful ache wormed through him again and he longed for his brother to wake. But Sam showed no signs of doing that any time soon. With a weary slump of his shoulders, Dean walked to the kitchenette, pulled open the fridge and snagged the second last chocolate bar. He returned to the couch, sat heavily and quietly opened the cellophane wrapping. Three large bites later, Dean felt vaguely nauseated, the candy wrapper lay discarded at his feet with the other seven, and he again cast a wishful eye toward Sam.

Dawn found the elder hunter seated in the same place, an empty carton of milk added to the mess of candy wrappers, and his face lit by the dull glow of Sam's laptop computer. He yawned and stretched, grimacing as weary muscles pulled. He pushed himself up, peered outside, then with a troubled sigh, dropped the curtain back. He made sure the heavy fabric pulled tight to the frame before he trudged to the bathroom, silently closed the door and leaned over the wash basin. The cracked mirror offered him a rather unflattering reflection. He scowled, splashed his face with cold water which effectively worsened his appearance, but did serve to beat away some of the aching fatigue. He returned to the hideous couch and the frustratingly endless wait.

Mid-morning brought Dean some company but it was not that which he waited for. The young girl he had found hidden in the attic of the Texas house woke, sat up, rubbed at her eyes then stared at him. Dean watched as her eyes widened. "Hey," he started gently. "I'm Dean, remember, we met last night. You told me that your name is Tara, and that your friend's name is Boris." The girl considered him then looked down. She snagged the fluffy toy dog from beside her.

Dean wet his lips and cocked his head to the side. "Christo," he said. He raised an eyebrow as Tara hugged the toy to her chest. "Christo," he repeated a little louder. Again, the name received no physical reaction. "Okay, no-one's home in there." Dean sighed, only partially relieved. Demonic possession had actually seemed the easier option.

"Where's my Mommy?"

"She's, ah…." Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. He massaged one particularly sore spot, and then scrubbed his hands over his thighs. "Tara, you and I met last night, when you were hiding in the attic with Boris. Do you remember?"

She hugged the stuffed animal to her chest. "Yeah, you're Dean."

"That's right."

"Where's my mommy and daddy?" The girl bobbed her head and scanned the small room. "Are they outside?"

"Uh… Tara, no. They're not here. They're…." Dean sucked in a breath. He whisked his gaze to his sibling as he teased at his lower lip with his teeth. He frowned as Sam shifted restlessly, his brow creased with pain.

"They're gone?"

Dean's heart clenched as the child's shrewd awareness skewered him. "Yeah," he breathed. "I'm sorry."

Tears filled the little girl's eyes and her lips quivered. "No. No… not real. Wasn't real. Just playing. Hide and seek. I was hiding. You found me, but Mommy and Daddy are still looking for me.I'll hide a bit longer, okay. It'll be fun. Daddy will laugh. He always laughs when I play tricks on him. Says he's angry, but I can tell he's not. You'll help me, Dean. Help me hide?"

By the end of her little self-talk, the child was almost entirely calm. But it had left Dean rattled. He swallowed thickly and forced a numb nod and a smile for the girl's benefit. His attention drew to his brother as Sam tossed his head and moaned. Dean quickly stood, crossed the room and knelt by the younger man's side. He gently swept the tousled locks from Sam's forehead and tenderly thumbed at the pain lines that deepened there. Tara watched him intently. She knotted a hand into one of Boris' large floppy ears and methodically wound the fabric around her small fist. Around and around until the skin of her hand adopted a dusky, flushed hue. Only when she could wind the fabric no tighter, did she finally stop.

"Tara, don't, don't do that."

The child blinked, confused.

"Boris." He nodded to the stuffed animal, unnerved as the girl continued to stare, her eyes a little too bright. "Tara, let Boris go. You're hurting his ear." The child stared dumbly for another few seconds before she seemed to recover her faculties. Pain tightened her features as she released her hand and Dean winced. Another moan from Sam drew his attention back to his brother.

"Sam?" Dean clasped the fingers of his free hand with those of Sam's left and intertwined the digits. He felt his brother's pulse, the steady and reassuring thrum of the younger man's life-force. He used it as an anchor, a safe harbor, and he borrowed that strength to beckon the younger boy to him as he woke. "Hey, little brother. It's about time you woke up."

Sam grunted and his eyes sprang open. His eyes moved to Dean's, the blue-green depths clouded with confusion. "Dean?"

"Yeah, the one and only. You're bound to feel a bit rough to start with so don't move too fast."

"Where are we?"

"El Reno."

"Am I dying?"

Dean's grip tightened. "Why do you ask that? Are you in pain? How's your head? Shit, Sam, I checked you over, woke you a dozen times. What did I miss? You seemed okay, you seemed—"

"Enough, you're giving me a headache," Sam said huskily. He shifted in attempt to sit up.

Dean untangled his fingers and placed a palm against the younger man's shoulder. "You have a headache?"

"No, but the hair, man. What's with the hair?"

Dean relaxed and a smile teased his lips. He playfully ruffled the unruly mop. "Wise-ass. What do you remember?"

"Too much, I think." He sat up and this time Dean let him. "Did we… did you?" His eyes searched Dean's. Dean nodded toward the other bed, and Sam frowned and looked across. His eyes widened. "Oh."

"Sam, meet Tara… and Boris."

Sam blinked and his lips parted. He steadied himself against the bed and shifted his legs over the side. "Hey, Tara," he whispered, his voice throaty and low. "I'm Sam."

Dean watched Tara as the girl intensely considered his brother. Her elfin features drew into a contemplative scowl as the seconds lengthened. She mouthed something and Dean cocked his head to the side. Beside him, Sam grimaced and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead.

"Hey," Dean said. He grabbed his brother's upper arms and moved so he blocked the line of sight to Tara. "Sam, look at me. Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing, just a twinge. It's nothing." He dropped his hand to his lap.

"Sam?"

Dean flinched and whirled. "Tara, what is it? What do you want?"

"Sam." She leaned over, forced to crane her neck to see the younger hunter behind Dean. When the child had gained a line of sight, she added, "Dean and I are playing hide and seek. You can play too, but I'm hiding first. Dean is helping me hide."

Dean shrugged at Sam's confused expression. He nodded toward the door, and then led the retreat from the motel room. He snagged a bottle of juice from the refrigerator on the way out and deftly uncapped it. "Sam and I are going outside; we'll leave the door open. If you need us, just call."

"Sam." Tara started.

"Yeah," Sam said as he hesitated. His fingers tapped nervously against his thigh.

"Boris likes you."

"Uh, good. That's good. I'll just be outside. With Dean."

"You'll come back?"

Sam nodded and Dean held the door open for him, allowing the younger man to step through. Dean smiled at the girl and won a small smile in return. It quickly faded as she looked to the open doorway, to where his brother had disappeared. Dean stepped outside. He passed the juice to his brother. "Drink it slowly."

Sam took the bottle. "What was it?" he asked. He thumbed toward the open door. "What the hell did that to her parents?"

Dean shrugged and averted his gaze.

"Dean?" Sam's eyes searched Dean's face, scouring, probing.

"Drink, Sam, you're dehydrated. Puking and then sleeping for half a day will get you that way."

Sam ducked his head, his face creased with heavy uncertainty. He fingered the bottle. Eventually his shoulders slumped and he took a swallow, swished and then walked a short distance away before spitting it out. He repeated the action several times, before he commenced drinking.

"Not too much, Sam," Dean warned. Sam downed three quarters of the bottle before he stopped. Dean passed him the cap. "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I'll live. So what was it? What did you find?"

Dean stiffened and his jaw tensed. He regarded his brother silently, not liking the haunted look in the younger boy's eyes, or the dark circles that lay beneath them. Though Sam had slept for over twelve hours, the exhausted slumber had not undone the six hours of physical torture. It would take more than a bit of apple juice to get Sam back up to speed.

"You didn't get it, did you?" Sam said, but it was more an accusation than a question.

Dean shrugged, but did not look away. He steeled himself against the raw need in Sam's eyes, the little brother who had relied on Dean to make it better, to make it safe. He recognized the acknowledgement of failure that Sam reflected back at him and it hurt. He wanted to explain, to make Sam understand… but he could not get his recalcitrant, denial-twisted tongue to form words. And, to be honest, he hoped that some other theory would present itself before he had to.

Movement at the window caught his eye and it was almost with relief that Dean shifted his gaze. Tara pulled the curtain back. She pressed the palm of one hand against the glass and stared at Sam. Sourness invaded the elder hunter's mouth and twisted through his nostrils. Metallic and coppery. Beneath that dwelt the putrefying stench of torn intestines and bowels. The elapsed hours had intensified that stench, and no matter how much Dean had showered, had scrubbed, had sought to rid his body of the decaying smell, it remained. Cloying. Sickly. He rubbed at his scalp. Nudged his fingers through his hair. He sensed the dead couple's cells in between the strands – the microscopic molecules of those two people in his follicles, in his pores. His stomach twisted.

"What would do that, Dean? What _could_ do that?"

Tara moved closer to the window and her face pressed against the glass. She watched Sam, not Dean… just Sam. She did not blink, and Dean shuddered against a chill that tracked the length of his spine.

"You must have some idea. You've researched, right. What did you find?"

He opened his mouth then closed it again. He wondered how Sam had not figured it out. The kid was college educated, smart as hell and quick to reach even the most implausible conclusion, yet this evaded him. Dean wanted him to figure it out. He did not want to be the one who laid it all out because the slow dawn of self-realization would be easier for Sam than a brutally jarring announcement. But the long hours of suffering must have screwed with Sam's mind, slowed him down, minced his brain-cells and left him intellectually deficient. Either that, or Sam just did not want to accept the reality of the situation.

"Dean? What do you think it was?"

"Max," Dean said softly. He winced at the confusion in Sam's eyes then held his breath as it morphed into pain. Denial erected a solid wall just a few seconds later.

"No. She's not like Max. No way, Dean. She's barely ten years old."

"She's eight."

Sam's lips twisted. "Those were her parents. That was her mother. Max's mom died like ours, Dean. Tara's didn't. They die yesterday. It's not the same."

"Adoption," Dean said simply. "Viv Hamilton can confirm it. We'll need Tara's date and place of birth, that's all."

"It was something else. It was not Tara."

"I'm not so good at all this vision stuff of yours, but the way I see it a connection does not just spontaneously occur. It has to be created, manifested from powerful psychic suggestion. Using mind power to massacre your family with steak knives kind of meets that criterion, Sam. It explains how she linked with you." He softened his words. "If it makes any difference, she does not remember doing it."

Sam pressed his lips tightly together and shook his head. "It does not explain how she maintained the link with me for as long as she did. Max couldn't. Tara wouldn't be able to either. It doesn't work that way."

"Then how does it work?"

"Tara did not kill her family, Dean. She's not like Max. Not even close."

"But she is psychic."

Sam glanced at him and looked away. "Call Viv. She'll confirm that the kid was not adopted. I'll start researching. At least one of us is good at that."

"Ouch."

Sam's lips twitched but it was not the ghost of a smile, it was something darker, more morose. He turned and headed back to the motel room. He had abandoned the juice. Three quarters of a bottle of apple juice would hardly keep the six foot four bean pole upright, let alone functional enough for research or anything else for that matter.

"Sam."

The younger man stopped and turned slightly, but not enough for Dean to see his face. Dean suspected it was deliberate and that made the elder hunter ache. "I'll dial in some food," he said as normally as possible. "What do you want? Pizza, pasta or burgers?"

"Not hungry, Dean."

"Pizza, pasta or burgers?"

"Not hungry."

"Don't make me kick your ass."

"Screw you."

"Sam, you have to eat."

Sam's shoulders slumped. "Get whatever you want. I don't care."

* * *

Sam eyed the plastic containers and bags that constituted the banquet Dean had arranged. Dean watched him, and Sam felt like a toddler taking its first steps under the vigilant eye of an overprotective parent. "This looks good," he lied, even managing a smile for his brother's benefit. Dean had excelled himself in the catering department. He had arranged three separate deliveries and some how managed to get them all to arrive within minutes of each other. It seemed he had covered almost every base: soup, salad, meat and even a selection of desserts. There would be a lot of waste, Sam decided. 

Dean leaned forward, clearly pleased by Sam's interest. "I thought the soup might stay down, if you're still a bit queasy. And the salads are pretty light. The dressing is on the side, in case, you didn't want it."

"It's good. Nice. Thanks."

"And there's bread rolls and—"

"I can see them," Sam said. He forced a thin smile. "Don't go all Martha Stewart on me, man."

"I'm not. I felt like some variety. No big deal."

"Okay."

Dean ducked his head, his gaze averted. "So, did you find anything on the internet?"

"No."

"So I'm not such a bad researcher after all?"

Sam ignored that. He claimed the soup, lifted the lid and eyed it with apprehension. His stomach cramped and rumbled. He blushed and accepted the spoon Dean passed him. He was not quite ready to chow down though. Tara, it seemed, had no such difficulties. The child sat opposite Sam, at the farthest point away from him, but the young hunter knew that he lay directly in her line of sight. It had taken a few false starts to reach that unspoken compromise. He had the distance he craved. She had the direct line of sight that she needed. Sam tried to understand the unease he felt around the child. There was a connection there, a link, some kind of tentative hold that she had over him… but it was not like Max.

He watched as she scrounged around in the bags until she had a selection of fries, chicken nuggets and several salads before her. She eyed them appreciatively then deliberately selected one of the fries. She dipped it in a tub of sauce and stuck it in her mouth. Her eyes widened, and a contented, almost blissful, calm descended.

"Haven't eaten for a while," Dean noted as he observed the girl.

Tara grinned then covered her mouth with her hand. "Oops," she said, "bad manners." She giggled, selected another fry and repeated the routine.

"At least someone is enjoying the food," Dean said as he selected his own food from the huge pile.

Sam forced a smile and dipped his spoon into the soup. He swirled it a few times, then collected some of the broth. The process stopped there. "Has Viv called back?"

"Not yet, she has to go through the records. Could take a few hours. She may not even be able to get back to me until tomorrow."

"We could ask…." He nodded toward Tara.

"Not a good idea."

Sam played with the soup some more. "We have to find out what happened, we have to ask."

"Sam, eat your soup. This conversation can wait."

It could not, but Tara had discovered that she could eat and listen at the same time, and the bright curiosity in her eyes demanded that they suspend their conversation until they were alone. Sam sighed and started on the steaming broth, and though the first few spoonfuls were difficult, he quickly found his way to the bottom of the cup. He pushed it aside then scanned the table. "You having that?" he asked as he pointed to the container of salad.

"No, it's yours. The bread, chicken wings and potato salad are as well, and anything else that waters those freaky taste-buds of yours. You get first pick, Sam."

"Even the burger?" He noticed that Dean had not yet started on it. The elder hunter had worked through the fries, after having adopted a similar eating pattern to the one Tara had opened the meal with. Both now wore contented cholesterol saturated grins.

Dean hesitated. He rested one hand on the still wrapped burger. "It's double beef," he said cautiously, as though that would make it less appealing.

"Sounds good."

Something close to pain crossed the elder hunter's features. "Really? I mean, if you want it, but… I thought you'd dig the whole soup and salad thing, so I didn't order you one."

Sam shrugged. "I could go a burger." He watched Dean's face, knowing that his brother would hand the meal over, it seemed that going hungry or sacrificing favorite foods was all part and parcel of being a big brother. Sam decided that being the youngest had its perks.

"Dude?" Dean griped, "Really?"

Sam chuckled softly. "I'm glad I was born second, Dean."

Dean did not seem to get it, and he stared, confusion marring his features. He toyed with the wrapping on the burger, and the hesitation was almost pitiful. "Well, do you want it or not?" he finally asked.

"No. I was messing with you."

"Oh." Dean absorbed the admission then added, "That's low. Burgers are sacred, dude. You know that."

"Yeah, I do."

The look Dean shot him was dark, almost murderous, and Sam laughed. He hoed into the salad, polishing it off with as much gusto as the soup. The chicken wings went next, then another salad, the bread roll and one of the desserts: some jellied-cake-custard thing that rapidly vanished into the gaping vortex that was Sam's stomach. He started to slow down a little then, and found Dean watching him. His brother wore a proud, self-satisfied smile that warmed Sam… and irritated him. He chose to let the former emotion foster, but warned his brother off staring with a single, brusque, "Dude."

Dean grinned. "That's my boy," he said proudly, and Sam physically resisted the urge to smack him. He would have, but the dessert had to be demolished first. Then that pecan pie that sat in the centre of the table, defenseless and vulnerable. Sam eyed it even as he worked through the last of the jellied cake thingy. He smacked his lips, moved the container away and glanced at Dean and Tara. Neither seemed ready to offer a challenge, but just reaching in seemed rude, somehow. Casual, disinterest would be the best option. Dean slid the pie toward him, his eyebrows raised in amusement. "That's why I'm the one that does the hustling, Sam. You are just too transparent, little brother."

He ought to get angry over that remark, but the pecan pie stopped before his nose and a spoon appeared. Soon, Sam wore the same contented, cholesterol saturated grin as his companions and not a crumb of food remained on the table, just a mess of containers, bags and wrappers.

They sat that way for several long minutes then Dean's cell phone rang. Sam's head jerked toward the sound then his eyes skittered to Dean's. "Viv?"

Dean retrieved the phone and flipped it open. "Dean Winchester," he answered. Sam held his breath. He sought to read Dean's expression, his stomach flip-flopping as the older boy nodded, confirming Sam's assumption that the senior government official was on the line.

"Okay," Dean said and a frown knotted his brow. "Yeah, that's the right one." Dean's eyes met Sam's, then flicked to Tara. He listened for several moments then said, "No, that's all I needed to know. Thanks." He paused and added, "Dad, yeah, he's good. I'll give him your regards. Thanks, Viv, and let us know if you have any more problems with that other matter." Dean's eyes met Sam's as he cut the connection. Sam held his breath, but Dean's expression gave nothing away. He stood and began tidying up the mess from the table.

"Dean?"

"Not here, Sammy. We'll talk outside."

Sam's gut clenched. What had Viv said? What had she found? He looked at Tara, at the unapologetic way she stared at him, and apprehension skated cold across his skin. Sam's stomach churned and he knew that the pecan pie had been a big mistake.

* * *

**End Chapter Three**


	4. Chapter 4

**Entity (Chapter Four)**

* * *

One bag of empty food containers dropped from Dean's hand into the farthest trash can in the row of nine. He held onto a second and hesitated, as though considering whether to toss it or keep it as a memento. Sam hoisted his two bags into the closest trash can, then joined his brother. He snatched the bag from Dean's fingers and dumped it. "So, what did Viv say?" 

"Good news." Dean flashed a smile. "Tara's not adopted. Mr and Mrs bits'n'pieces gory candy floss were her parents. You were right. She's not like Max." He play-punched Sam's shoulder. "The _shining_ jackpots again. Right on the money, Sammy boy. I'm telling you, we need to set ourselves up in Vegas for a few weeks. Ka-ching!"

Sam huffed, then grunted as Dean punched him again. This time harder. He blocked a third strike from his too bright-eyed sibling. "What's wrong with you?"

Dean pursed his lips, his eyes wide. He side-stepped, threw a punch then countered Sam's reflexive defense. Sam ducked just in time to avoid a stunning blow to the face. He backed up, breathing hard. "Dean, what the hell?"

The older boy stepped back, his eyes strangely glassy. He shook his head, turned on his heel and walked away. Sam stared after him.

Dean was packing his bag when Sam returned to the motel room. There was a shaky almost frantic manner to the older man that unnerved Sam. Dean noticed him and gestured that they should step outside. Sam tensed in preparation for another sparring match, but Dean seemed to have calmed down.

"Pack your stuff."

"I didn't unpack anything." Sam gestured to the clothes he wore, the ones that presently reeked of stale sweat. "Can't you smell me?"

Dean considered that, then his nose twitched. "Uh, yeah, come to think of it you are a bit ripe. Take a shower, but make it fast. We can still make Perryton before dark."

"Perryton?" He lowered his voice and drew his brother away from the motel room door. "You want to take Tara back home? We can't do that, Dean. We don't know what killed her parents. It could still be after her."

"Maybe, but it's not our problem. She's not like Max, so she's not our problem."

"No, she connected with me. She needs our help."

"No, Sam. She's not like Max and only Max could connect with you. It's something else and it wants that kid. I'm not going to stand back and watch you go down in the cross-fire." Dean ran a hand through his hair and stepped back. He was breathing hard, his eyes bright. "We're taking her back to Perryton then we're hauling ass out of there."

"We can't," Sam said gently. "We have to find out what happened, what she saw. We can't abandon her."

"Hell yeah we can."

Sam touched his brother's shoulder. He could feel the minute tremors through him and his concern grew when Dean did not shrug away. "We can't, Dean. And I know you would never leave her to die. So how about you unpack your clothes, I'll take a shower and then we'll try to find out what she knows. You said that when she woke she knew her parents were dead?" At Dean's subtle affirmative nod, Sam continued. "Then she's consciously repressing the memories. That should make it easier to draw them back out."

Dean pursed his lips and looked away. Tears budded at his eyes and he sucked in a breath. He shrugged Sam's grasp then, but the retreat was gentle, almost painfully so.

"You okay" Sam asked.

"Peachy."

Sam huffed. "Okay, so you'll unpack and apologize to your clothes for the harsh treatment."

"Uh huh."

* * *

Tara's conscious repression of the memories did make them easier to draw back out, but the very moment that Sam saw the light of recollection spark in Tara's eyes, he realized how he and the girl were connected. That understanding came at a heavy price. 

Pain sliced through Sam's skull, jagged and red hot. Before he completely lost the ability to communicate, Sam begged his brother to switch her off.

"Dean, make her forget. Please, stop her from… remembering," he rasped. It was all he managed. He crumpled as his barely regained strength dissolved beneath the onslaught. He felt Dean kneel beside him, he felt his brother's warm touch and his voice, but beyond that he experienced only blinding pain.

An indeterminable time later, the pain eased and awareness shifted back. With it came a raw ache and vile bitterness that tasted horribly like regurgitated pecan pie. Gluttony, it seemed, would be his undoing, and he mused on that even as he lurched up and dashed to the bathroom. The bitter irony remained with him through the first spasms of sickness, but after another eternity of a different pain, one that left him with a raw throat, aching abdominal muscles and his face streaked with tears, irony was but a dark memory.

"I get it now," Sam spat bitterly as he flushed the toilet and shakily shifted to the wash basin. Stained and yellowed ceramic with crazy cracks and a rusted plug hole held his attention for several long minutes, and he flinched when Dean touched him. "It's her fear that connects us. When she's afraid, she psychically reaches out and whammo, torture-Sam time," he said bitterly. He turned then and saw his brother nod. The cold dawn of understanding almost drove Sam to his knees. "You knew. You knew and you let me quiz her anyway. Jesus, Dean—"

"No. I figured it out. Just now. But I should have known before. When she woke she was initially afraid. You sensed that. Somehow, even in sleep, you sensed it and it caused you pain. I should have drawn the conclusion then." Dean's lips twisted and his eyes darkened with bitter self-recrimination. He gestured to the bathroom and all that it represented, "This should never have happened."

"Not your fault," Sam said. His knees gave out and he slid down, his spine grating painfully over the lip of the basin before his butt found the floor. He pulled his knees up and bowed his head between them. He heard Dean leave and then return a moment later. He jerked back as he felt something draped over him.

"Easy, it's a blanket. You need to keep warm."

Sam clenched his jaw as his body began trembling. "We have to know what happened, Dean. You have to find out. It's the only way to fix this."

"I'm not asking her any more questions. I'm not putting you through that again. "

"I'll… be… okay," he panted, as the room tipped and spun. He groaned and closed his eyes.

"No you won't," Dean said tightly. He continued to fuss with the blanket, rearranging it several times before his hands settled on Sam's shoulders, their movement finally stilled. "We will go to Missouri. She will know what to do."

* * *

Sam stared out of the roadhouse window at the traffic, the people… anything other than the food on the plate before him. "I paid good money for that," Dean griped, observing his brother's failure to take a bite. "We're not leaving until you've eaten it." 

"I can't."

"You can and you will." Sam turned pained eyes to his brother and Dean's resolve almost failed. Almost. "I'm serious, Sam. We're not leaving here until you eat."

"Look what happened last time," Sam said bitterly.

"I know and I'm sorry but you have to try."

Sam's shoulders slumped and he moved the steak around on the plate with his fork. He sighed deeply, then picked up a quickly cooling potato slice and stuck it into his mouth. His jaw moved as he chewed, and his gaze returned to the window. Since leaving the motel, he had said very little and had refused to make the phone call to Missouri that would alert her to their arrival. Dean had not pushed it, instead he had called Missouri and kept it brief, giving very little away. To tell her more would have required Dean making the call in private, and Dean knew that would have broken his brother – shown him how scared Dean was. And Dean knew he was already doing a shit poor job of holding it all together as it was.

They had not quizzed Tara any further for fear of the ramifications for Sam. Instead, Dean worked hard to bring that protective shield of repressed memory back around the girl. The unhealthy psychological state that shielded Sam and kept him safe. He was not foolish enough to believe that the girl could be maintained in that state forever. Sooner or later, she would remember, or something would scare her, and Sam would suffer.

Dean looked at Tara and he swallowed thickly. The kid was no less a victim than Sam. And her childish manner, the shy acceptance and trust that she placed in him and his brother wedged a blade deep into Dean's heart. She was a victim, but she also had the potential to rip Sam apart, and Dean would do anything… anything, to make sure his little brother never had to go through that pain again.

"What does that say?" Tara suddenly moved the book she was reading in front of Sam, her finger pointing to a word that Dean could not see.

Dean forced his thoughts aside and intercepted the girl's attempt to reach Sam. "Tara, Sam is tired right now, he doesn't want to be disturbed."

Tara barely glanced at him. "Sam, what's this word?"

Dean reached over and took the book. "Tara, what did I say?"

Sam winced and his attention pulled back from the simply fascinating view out of the window. "What's going on?"

"There's a word that I don't understand," Tara said before Dean could open his mouth. She pointed to the book that Dean now held. "Can you tell me what it means?"

Dean sighed and passed the book to his brother. "We have to hit the road soon, Sam. Eat that steak and I'll let the rest slide."

Sam found the word, defined it and passed the book back. The younger boy evaded physical contact with the child. Dean had noticed and quizzed him, but Sam had no explanation other than a feeling of unease. One of those spidey-sense things, Dean presumed, and he left it alone. Tara returned to reading and silence once again fell across the table. Sam started on the steak, glancing at his brother before returning to staring out the window.

"We'll reach Missouri's around eight," Dean said.

Sam nodded.

"It'll be okay," he reassured. "She will know what to do."

* * *

Missouri Mosely heard the rumble of the classic Chevrolet Impala before it cruised to a stop outside her house. She remained seated, waiting until the front doorbell rang, and then she stood, brushed her hair back from her face and walked to the door. 

"Oh my," she breathed as she took in the worn expressions of the two young men. "You boys look like the weight of the world is upon your shoulders." Sam shuffled where he stood, then bowed his head. Dean tried for a cocky smile, but it didn't come off as anything close. Both boys were hurting, she could see it on their eyes without even reading their thoughts.

"This is Tara," Dean offered quietly as Missouri looked down at the small girl who stood slightly behind him.

"Well, hello. Aren't you just a sweetie." The child smiled shyly, then turned and looked back at Sam. The younger boy stood several steps behind, his head still down and shoulders stooped. He looked beaten and Missouri's heart clenched. "C'mon in, it's cold out. Winter is falling quick this year, don't you think?"

None of the group answered for a moment, then Dean offered a weak, "Yeah, it is. It'll be a cold one."

Missouri frowned, stepping aside to allow the small group to enter her home. The two boys already knew their way around, and moved to the lounge room. They were seated on opposite sides of the room when Missouri joined them. Tara stood awkwardly at the door, politely waiting to be ushered into the room and directed where to sit. Missouri directed her to a large old rocking chair while she sat beside Sam. She placed her hand on his knee, "you're having a hard time, right now, I see."

Tears filled the young man's eyes immediately, and he sniffed and bowed his head. She kept her hand on his knee, gently massaging. "You're scared for him," she said, looking up at Dean. "You're not sure what to do."

Dean flinched, then shook his head. "I…."

"Quiet, boy. I haven't finished speaking."

Dean's eyes widened. "Yes maam."

"Tara here is quite an amazing young woman," she observed as she turned toward the girl. "Are you hungry, dear? I've cooked my special recipe roast with seasoned vegetables. I'm told it's quite delicious."

Tara blinked, her expression interested. "With roast potato?"

"Why, of course."

"Goody."

"If you would be so kind as to help me lay out the table, I'll carve the roast. There's enough for us all."

"I'm not really hungry," Sam admitted. "Don't put anything out for me, it would be a waste."

"We'll see about that." She stood, beckoned Tara to her and took the young girl's hand to lead her from the room. "You boys relax. Tara will call you when the meal is ready."

Missouri led the girl to the dining room and showed her the cutlery drawer and the plates, she directed her on how to dress the table before moving to the kitchen to finish preparation of the meal. She worked efficiently, but her mind was on the two boys that waited in her sitting room.

She sensed Dean's fear for his younger brother. That boy had a strong protective streak when it came to Sam, and he was smart, savvy and strong. It took a lot to shake Dean Winchester, but shaken he was. And Sam. She sighed heavily, that boy had powerful abilities, much stronger than he realized or knew how to deal with. That is why they were here. Though she did not know the details, she had sensed enough to know that this was about Sam's powers… and the girl. That slight young thing had Sam scared, but why she could not determine. He had shut down, his mind closed to her gentle probing. With more force, she could have extracted more, but she would not use mental force on the boy, not when he appeared so fragile already. First, she we get them fed and relaxed, then they could talk at length.

"Can I call Sam and Dean?" Tara asked, as she appeared in the doorway.

"Why, yes, my dear. Tell them to wash their hands first though. You know boys, they tend to forget."

Tara smiled shyly then disappeared in the direction of the lounge room. She heard muted voices, then the two young men walked past the kitchen doorway. Dean had his hand on Sam's shoulder. "He's such a good boy," Missouri whispered, "infuriatingly arrogant with a vile mouth, but a good boy."

Several minutes later, the four were seated around the small dining table, a spread of pot roast, potatoes and greens before them. "Help yourselves," she said, taking a seat beside Sam. She leaned toward him and said softly, "I know that your stomach is twisted in knots right now, child. Food makes you feel nauseous, doesn't it?" Sam nodded, his pained eyes lifting to meet hers. "I made a special pot of tea for you," she nodded to the steaming cup before Sam's setting at the table, "take a few sips, see if it doesn't help some."

She watched as Sam extended a shaky hand and took the cup. He sniffed, looked at her before taking a hesitant swallow. She smiled encouragingly. "It's an herbal blend. It will help to settle your stomach. I wouldn't want you to miss out on my famous pot roast."

Sam smiled, though it was tentative and did not quite reach his eyes. She made small talk then, managing to engage Dean in conversation before Tara also chirped up. Though she and Dean worked to include Sam, the younger boy clearly lacked the resources to participate fully. After several minutes, she exchanged glances with Dean and neither of them tried any further to include him.

"Do you have sauce?" Tara piped up, her eyes scanning the table.

"Yes, honey, but it wouldn't go well with this meal."

Tara frowned, still looking at the spread before her. "It's nice on potato."

"I have gravy for that."

"Oh."

"You don't like gravy?"

"It's not my favorite."

"And sauce is?"

"Yes."

"Well, then. How about you go back into the kitchen, open the refrigerator and you might just find your favorite in there."

"Really?"

Missouri chuckled. "It's a small bottle in the door. You can't miss it."

Tara grinned, carefully folded her napkin and placed it beside her dinner setting then excused herself from the table.

"Sauce," Missouri said, "with pot roast."

"It's actually not bad," Dean piped up.

"Did you teach the child to ruin her food?"

"What? No, I've only known her a day."

"Long enough to corrupt her mind."

"Hey," Dean groused. "I can't help it if the kid has good taste."

"Good taste," Sam snorted quietly. "Your taste in food leaves much to be desired, man."

Dean pasted an expression of hurt disgust on his face, but Missouri could see that the older boy was as pleased as she was that her niggling at Dean had achieved its desired effect. As she watched him, Sam grimaced and pinched at the bridge of his nose.

"Honey," Missouri said, " what's wrong?"

"Uh, my head." Sam's grimace tightened. He pushed his chair back, and stood, using one hand to brace against the table. He curled forward and clutched at his head. "Argh, God. Dean, please."

"Sam!" Dean shoved his own chair back. It slid, toppled and thudded loudly on the polished timber floor. "Where's Tara?" Dean wrapped a supportive arm around his brother. "Find her."

Missouri gestured toward the hallway but could not take her eyes from Sam. His face had taken on a deathly gray, one white-knuckled hand fisted at his forehead. Pushing her own chair back, she made to move to him, to help. Dean held up a hand. "No. Find Tara and calm her down."

"But Sam--"

"Tara's fear cripples him, Missouri. When she's scared, the kid somehow gets inside Sam's mind and rips him apart. You have to find her and calm her down."

Missouri shook her head, her fingers pressed against her lips.

"Missouri. Now. Go."

Missouri moved, her limbs loose and awkward. She found the girl in the hallway, staring dumbly at the front door. The child visibly shuddered as something banged up hard against the door, shaking the frame. "Damn," Missouri whispered as she sensed the girl's fear of the entity that had chosen this precise moment to play games with the house. Missouri recognized it as a playfully infuriating spirit but without the power or motivation to cause harm. It had visited before, several times and though she had tried every trick in the book to rid the house of it, it returned. Because it was harmless, she realized that she had not tried hard enough to remove it, instead the charms and potions that protected the house from more evil forces was effective at also keeping it out. She had thought it was enough. She had never predicted anything like this particular scenario.

Her heart clenched and she moved to the girl. "Tara, honey. It's okay," she soothed, "it cannot hurt you. In fact, it's been here before and I've named it." She had not, but it seemed fitting. "Casper," she said with forced cheeriness, "the friendly ghost." The spirit chose that moment to toss itself heavily against the door. The timber moved imperceptibly and Tara screamed, twisted away and ran back down the hallway and into the dining room. Missouri followed.

She found that the brothers had not moved. Sam lay on the floor of the dining room, his head against Dean's thigh and eyes tightly closed. Tears leaked down the side of his face, and blood coated his lips and chin. The dark fluid formed a crazed, jagged pattern against his ashen skin. He had curled one hand around Dean's left wrist and the pressure he exerted brought obvious pain to the older boy. Dean noticed her and looked up. "Dammit, he can't take any more of this."

"I—" she started helplessly.

Dean glared at her, then stood, pulled his brother up and sliced a stunning blow to Sam's jaw. The knock-out punch took Sam down hard and with his fingers still locked around Dean's wrist, the sudden dead weight knocked the older boy off balance. Dean grunted, fell heavily to one knee and then with a tenderness that belied the brutal action he had just taken, he pulled his unconscious brother into his embrace. Missouri swallowed back bile and steadied herself against the dining room table. For a moment silence fell across the room, then Tara began a low keening. At the front of the house, the spirit continued to bang, bang, bang -- playing its game.

"How long will it last?" Dean looked up and Missouri saw he was crying. "How long?" he pressed when she did not immediately answer.

"Ten maybe fifteen minutes."

"Too long."

Missouri suddenly understood that Dean had checked the force he had used on Sam. "How long until he wakes," she asked numbly.

"A few minutes and when he does, that son-of-a-bitch out there has to be gone."

Missouri doubted that to be possible. "Or Tara has to be calmed down." Dean immediately turned his attention to the girl, his expression hard. "Don't you be thinking of hitting her," Missouri berated weakly, doubting that she would have the strength or conviction to stop him if he tried.

"You have a better suggestion?"

"Headphones."

"What?"

"Stay with Sam, I'll be a minute."

She set the girl up with a children's DVD and headphones in the furthest room of the house from the door that the entity had chosen to attempt to bash down. She stayed with the child until she had settled, then returned to Sam and Dean. She found that Sam had roused, though he sat with his head in his hands, the long fingers twisted through his hair. "Dean?" Missouri asked cautiously, "Is he alright?"

"I'm fine," Sam answered as he raised his head. Missouri winced because the youngest Winchester looked anything but fine.

Dean agreed and shuffled where he stood, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans and his shoulders tense. "As soon as that thing stops, we'll haul ass out of here."

"Uh, can't Missouri–", Sam started.

"Help? No, she can't."

Sam frowned and turned to her, his expression pained. "Missouri?"

Clearing her throat, Missouri said, "That's not exactly true, honey. How about you boys tell me what has happened until now and I'll see whether there's something or someone who might be able to help."

Dean sighed heavily and she sensed his frustration and anger. "Boy, no lip from you."

"C'mon, be straight with us here. Can you help or not?"

"Tell me what is going on."

"Read our minds."

"Dean, honey. You giving me sass will not help Sam. I know you are hurting so I'm going to ignore your lip, but don't push your luck."

Dean had the good grace to look abashed. He ducked his head, then slowly related the sequence of events that had led he, his brother and the young girl to her home. "Can Tara be switched off?" he asked when he had finished relating his tale.

"What do you mean?"

Dean frowned and scrubbed a hand across his face. He looked dead on his feet, almost worse than Sam, if that were even possible. Reliving the events had taken their toll on him, and Missouri knew that he had omitted several particularly gut-wrenching details for Sam's benefit.

"How can we stop her from invading Sam's mind?" Dean clarified.

"It's likely that she could be taught to control her powers. She is young, her mind not yet fully formed, and even if she could learn how to control her thoughts, she lacks the physiological wiring that would enable her to manage it well enough to protect Sam. But--," she held up a hand, forestalling Dean's words. She turned to Sam who sat quietly, one hand to his forehead, the long fingers alternating between massaging and kneading. "You can be taught to block her. You can protect yourself."

"Block the visions," he asked hopefully.

"No, honey. You have incredible powers, a gift. I don't think you can turn it off any less than you can stop being who you are. But it should be possible for you to stop the kind of thing that is happening now."

Sam's eyes clouded, his expression pained. Though her heart ached for him, the sooner he accepted this new addition to his life, to his psyche, the easier it would be for him to cope.

"I have a friend who may be willing to help. He is a powerful psychic, though his abilities are different from Sam's, he has a broader understanding of this area than I."

Dean nodded. "Sounds good to me."

"Sam?"

Sam shrugged, his eyes closing. "Yeah, whatever."

Dean frowned as he glanced at Missouri then regarded his brother with concern. "Where is this friend of yours? Can we go to him now?"

"It's best that Sam doesn't leave the house. I'll ask him to come here. He lives some distance away. Even if he agrees to see Sam, he couldn't be here until morning."

"Will he agree?"

"It's likely. He knows of your father, and respects him. By default he knows of you and Sam. I think he will want to help if he can."

Dean nodded, then pushed a shaky hand through his hair. "So, for tonight we need to do something about Tara. _The Wiggles_ will only keep her occupied for so long, unless you're planning on letting me…," he trailed off as he brought a hopeful gaze up to meet Missouri's.

"Dean Winchester," Missouri chastised, "you will do no such thing."

The muscles around Dean's mouth twitched. "Then give me an alternative."

"Sedative," she said quickly, returning her gaze to Sam. She softened her tone. "I can give you a drug that will give you some well needed rest and block your conscious mind from Tara. It will wear off by morning, though you may feel a little fuzzy for the first hour or so after waking. And," she added as she sensed Sam's resistance. "you will be safe here. You've seen that nothing can get in, no matter how hard it might try."

Sam shook his head, suddenly withdrawing his gaze from Missouri and his brother. "No, Dean can knock me out again if something happens."

"No, he can't, Sam," she responded, her voice breaking.

"Then I'll take my chances on my own."

"No, honey. I've seen how Tara affects you. Your body cannot tolerate any more of that." She softened her words, pressing him a little further. "The drug will block Tara from making contact if she is frightened again. It will get you through the night, and it will give your body a chance to heal."

"No."

"Can't you drug Tara," Dean interjected.

She had been hoping that he would not ask that particular question, but now that he had, she answered truthfully. "I can give her some herbal tea that will settle her down, for her own protection. But she may not be the only one who can reach Sam."

"What are you saying?"

"We do not know what we are up against and leaving Sam vulnerable right now is not wise. Drugging Tara will not protect Sam if something comes looking for her, finds her mind closed but senses the link to Sam and follows it."

Dean's brow knitted as the young man processed that. Even exhausted, Dean was jumping to more distant conclusions that she had even reached herself, but that were not entirely unlikely. The one that brought tremors to his hunched form was the realization that there could be an open psychic link between Sam and Tara that if not shut down, could bring any number of evil forces down onto the young hunter. Sam would have no way of defending himself, and although knocking him unconscious had severed Tara's link after she had activated it, it would not be effective on something stronger… more malevolent. If something got in, Sam could be killed without even leaving the safety of Missouri's home, and Dean would be helpless to prevent it.

Dean almost broke right there and then, and Missouri wished she had chosen her words, been more reassuring. However, when it came to the Winchesters, she did not lie easily. They needed the truth. It kept them sharp – it kept them alive. "Sam, do what Missouri says," Dean finally ground out, his tone harsh.

Sam's head jerked up, his eyes meeting his brother's. "I'll be helpless," he rasped as he wrung his hands. "Dean, can't you–"

"No. Just take the goddamn pills, Sam."

Stung by his brother's abruptness and presently lacking the mental faculties to read the depth of emotion that underlay Dean's words, Sam turned wounded eyes to Missouri. "Missouri, please."

"I'm sorry, honey." The youngest Winchester was an open book when it came to his emotions, and now the look of defeat and abandonment cut her deep. He bowed his head and she knew that he had given in. "Good boy," she touched his shoulder, squeezing gently. "I'll get you a glass and the pills. You will be safe, I promise."

**End Chapter 4**


	5. Chapter 5

**ENTITY (Chapter Five)**

"You're kidding me," Sam snorted as he stood at the window of Missouri's home. The dull headache that he had woken with flared up, making him wince. "What the hell can he do?" 

"Don't be judging a book by its cover, boy. Now sit, drink that tea and—"

"Shut your cake-hole, Sam" Dean completed dryly as he entered the room. The elder hunter moved to the window and whistled softly. "Damn, somebody call the guys from _Queer Eye for the Straight Guy_. This dude is in serious need of make-over." He stepped away from the window. "What the hell is that? Have you seen that?"

"Oh yeah, man. Impressive, huh?"

"And he's going to go fishing around in that freaky head of yours?"

"Seems so."

"If you start dressing like that, I'll disown your ass."

"You are so full of shit."

Dean shrugged, raising one eyebrow. "Yeah, whatever. So, who is this dude anyway?"

"Marcus Jennings, psychic extraordinaire. I don't know man. I'm not seeing it myself."

"Maybe the shoe-laces channel the spirits, or maybe it's a shoe phone. Yeah," he said, obviously impressed with his wit, "that's it. Shoe phone to the other side."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You've lost it."

"Ah, so at last you admit that I had it."

"Ugh," Sam grunted in disgust as he collapsed back into the sofa chair. He reached for the cup of herbal tea and took a long swallow of the slightly bitter liquid. It was the same blend that Missouri had given him the previous night, and true to her word it had calmed his stomach. Probably saved him from hurling his guts out after…. He closed his eyes and pushed the memory from his mind. Pink tie, blue shoes, hell, the guy could have horns coming out of his head, it did not matter as long as he could fix this. He opened his eyes and found Dean watching him, his brother's hazel-green eyes full of concern. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"You know what?"

"No, what?"

"Can't you go and look after Tara, or something. Make sure she doesn't freak out again."

"Babysit?" Dean sounded genuinely horrified.

"That's a great idea," Missouri said as she entered the room.

"No, seriously it's not."

"There are games in the spare room, dolls and a tea set."

"I'm not playing tea," Dean squeaked. He looked at Sam. "C'mon dude, help me out here." He quickly saw that he would gain no support from his brother and his shoulder's stooped. "You owe me," he said, his finger pointing at Sam. "You owe me big time."

Sam smiled and Dean hesitated at the door. Sam saw all the love and fear in his brother's eyes that the older man worked so hard to keep hidden. Sam's throat suddenly constricted.

"I'll be just down the hall, Sammy," Dean said, his voice deep and soft.

"It's Sam," Sam whispered. He listened as the two retreated toward the back of the house, then he was alone with the small-suited man. Marcus stepped into the room, considered the seating arrangements and then chose a comfortable chair opposite Sam. He lay the cane on the floor and set the book down beside him. He kept a hold of the bowler hat.

"Can you read minds?" Sam asked.

"No."

"Good."

"Thinking bad things about me?"

"You're not quite what I expected."

"Neither are you."

"What… what do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said."

Sam shifted uncomfortably and glanced at the door. He could no longer hear his brother's voice. He looked back at the man and smiled slightly as Marcus' expression softened. "I… do you know my father?"

"John Winchester. Yes, but not personally. In the same way that I know of you and your brother."

"How? What do you know about us?"

"Not a lot, Sam. I know that you both were raised by your father to be hunters. I can see now that you're not comfortable with the path that was chosen for you and that it's causing you pain."

"Path? What do you mean?"

Marcus toyed with the bowler hat, his fingers shaping the brim. "You have a gift."

"It's not a gift."

"Okay, what would you prefer to call it?"

_Nightmare. Torture. The hand of death._ Sam pressed his lips together and shook his head, his vision blurring. He inhaled sharply and rubbed at his face. "Visions," he said. "You can call them visions."

"That works. So, these visions, they've become random and painful?"

"That's an understatement."

Marcus nodded, his expression sincerely sympathetic. "I can help you with them, teach you to control their duration and intensity. They don't need to be so painful, although there will always be a measure of discomfort, it should not be like what you've experienced. I do warn you though, this won't be easy to learn and it will require consistent effort and practice."

"Can I stop it ever happening? Can I turn it off?"

Marcus hesitated, his tongue playing across his lower lip as he considered the question. "No."

"No," Sam shook his head. "What do you mean, no? What does that mean?"

"I cannot explain."

"No. That's not good enough!" Sam shoved out of the chair, almost upsetting the small table with the herbal tea. He stood and used his full height to tower over the seated man. He did not mean to appear threatening, but as he stood there, looking down, he realized that is exactly how he must appear. Ashamed, he twisted on his heel and stalked to the window. The headache had returned and though it was still comparatively mild, Sam lacked the resources to fully cope with it. "I don't understand," he finally offered as the silence extended into minutes. "I don't know what is happening to me."

"Sam, there is no simple answer. Why you have the powers that you do is not something that I can explain for you. I wish I could, I really do. However, I do believe that it will become clear to you, in time. That's all I can offer, I'm sorry."

"Why do you have your… powers?"

Marcus huffed softly. "To be honest, I don't know for sure, but I have a theory. That is to help people. People like yourself. Beyond that, who knows. If there's a bigger plan and I'm a part of it, I've yet to be given a copy of the blueprints."

"Do you know why Missouri can read minds?"

"She believes it is so that she can help others. She needs to know nothing more than that."

"How can you be satisfied with that?"

"Searching for illusive answers does not always make the road an easier one. Sometimes you just have to accept and work with what you've got."

"No, there has to be more than just blind acceptance. There has to be some way to find out."

"Why?"

"So that I can understand."

"And then what?" Marcus queried. "I don't mean to be antagonistic, but you need to focus your energy on managing the visions and on having control over any links that external entities seek to establish with you. At present you are so focused on over-thinking this that you have no left over energy to protect yourself. And anger, you have to get your anger under control. I know enough about you to recognize that your anger is warranted, but it's dangerous, Sam. Simmering rage is attractive to evil forces. They feed off it."

Sam flinched as the pain in his head escalated. He squinted, groaning softly as he kneaded at his forehead. He willed the pain away, but the more he focused on it, the worse it became.

He jerked and started back as he felt something touch his arm. He found Marcus beside him, and the older man placed his hands on Sam's biceps, holding him gently. "Breathe," the psychic coaxed. "Slow and deep. Close your eyes and focus on your breath. Imagine a vapor, cool and gentle, life giving. Draw it in and hold it, allow it to infuse your body, soaking up the pain, the tension. Then slowly release it."

Sam struggled to follow the instructions. His knees weakened and he probably would have fallen except for Marcus' grip on his upper arms. Still, the older man continued his melodic drawl, coaxing him to listen, to follow the instructions. Slowly, Sam did and he found his body relaxing, the pain drawing away.

"How you feel?"

Sam opened his eyes, his lips parted as he slowly exhaled. He blinked and considered the question for a moment, taking the time to catalogue the sensations through his body. "Okay," he finally admitted, frowning in confusion. "How… what did you do?"

"Nothing," Marcus said as he released his grip from Sam's arms. "You did it yourself."

* * *

"What's he teaching you?" 

Sam reclined on the bed, one side of his face cast in shadows. He stared at the ceiling and took a moment to answer Dean's question. "Meditation. Deep breathing. Visualization."

Dean's eyes widened and he snorted. "You going all new-age on me, dude?"

"Something like that."

"And it's working," Dean pressed. He held his breath and watched his brother's face carefully, observant of the lines of fatigue that deepened Sam's brow. It had been three days since Marcus had first set foot on Missouri's doorstep, garbed in attire that made Dean's eyes water. Since then, Dean had seen very little of his brother and tonight was the first chance he had had to quiz the younger man. "Sam?" he pressed.

"I don't know. Marcus thinks it is. He wants to try entering my mind tomorrow, see if I can block him."

"He can do that?" Dean asked, his voice slightly higher than he had liked. He cleared his throat, ignoring Sam's quizzical look. "He can get inside your head, like Tara can?"

"No, he says it will be more like probing, trying to read my thoughts, that kind of thing. He works with the Feds sometimes, on missing persons' cases and homicides and he uses his power for that. He also gets visions though, and he knows how to manage them. But he can't project."

"He's a medium?" Dean clarified, waiting for Sam to nod his assent. Then the second part of what Sam had said hit him. "If he can't project, how can he be sure that he's teaching you what you need to know? There's no way of testing it."

"Tara," Sam said simply.

Dean understood and his breath caught. "Oh."

Sam closed his eyes and exhaled heavily. "He is convinced I'll be ready, but… I don't know man. I'm not sure I'll ever be ready for that."

Dean watched his brother for a moment, unsure of what to say then he pushed away from the bed and walked to the window. It was dark out and heavy clouds hid the night sky. He stood silently, his body tense. Silence fell between them, the air thick with uncertainty and fear.

"How's Tara?" Sam finally asked, his voice sleepy.

"She's going stir crazy, as am I. Missouri doesn't want her to leave the house and as I'm her babysitter, I don't get no sunshine either."

"Sorry,"

"Yeah, well, life's a bitch. I'll live. She's staying calm though, but I guess you know that. She keeps asking for you, asking how you are. But she's not stressing out, it's like she can sense that you're still close by and she accepts that she can't always see you." Dean sighed, the exhalation laced with anxiousness. "Has Marcus said anything more about her? Aside from him confirming that she's psychic."

"No, he wants to make sure I can handle the connection before he tries to coax anything out of her."

"So he does think it's just the fear that's linking you two. That it's that emotion that causes the pain?"

"In theory, yeah, but the intensity and duration throws him a bit. Trust me to take freaky to a whole new level."

Dean ignored the remark because Sam sounded weary rather than self-pitying or hateful. "So this stuff he's teaching you, it will work, won't it? He's confident about that part?"

"Yeah, he is." Sam said as he glanced at Dean. He exhaled softly then his eyes closed.

Dean recognized the uncertainty that Sam tried to hide. Even if Marcus was certain, it was clear that Sam held grave doubts. Dean turned away from the window and crossed the room. He settled himself into the single seat sofa, wincing as the antique creaked as it took his weight.

"You staying?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, that a problem?"

Sam took a moment, his eyes still closed. "Whatever rocks your boat, man." He rolled onto his side, one arm flopping over the bed, the fingers loosely curled.

Dean grinned, itching to throw back a bitching retort, but his brother was asleep. A non-drug induced sleep. The first in three nights, but it did not necessarily signal progress. Though Marcus Jennings had expressed faith in Sam's ability to fight should something come knocking on his subconscious mind, it was entirely untested. It had seemed foolishly dangerous to Dean and he had argued against leaving Sam's subconscious unprotected in sleep, pushing instead to have his brother drugged and safe.

He had lost the argument after Missouri had made it clear to him that continued use of the medication would harm Sam. Dean had already seen a hint of that when he had woken his brother that morning. Sam has roused, only to stare dumbly, his eyes completely devoid of any form of recognition. It had passed after several minutes but it had scared Dean. He had told Missouri and she had nodded, her eyes knowing. She had told him that Sam could not take any more of the drug, his body and mind needed a chance to reset, to heal. Dean had naively asked what the consequences would be if they continued with the sedation and Missouri had answered simply: brain damage. That sealed it for Dean, and he had asked no more questions.

* * *

It was Day Five after shoe-phone guy's arrival that the psychic said Sam was ready to have Tara remember that night, and two nights that Sam had slept without the protection of the drugs. Nothing had come to pass, except for a stiff neck and aching back for Dean from the damned sofa chair. 

"Sam, if you're not ready, we can wait another day," Dean whispered, glancing over his shoulder at Missouri and Marcus as they prepared for quizzing Tara. "I mean it man, if you're not ready."

"I'm ready."

"That's not what you told me last night and the night before that."

"Dean, I know you're worried about me, but don't. You don't have to."

"You're shaking," Dean observed as he placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "This is bullshit, Sam. What is another day going to hurt?"

"No. No more waiting, Dean. I want it over with. If I'm not ready now–"

_You never will be._ Dean silently completed when Sam returned to Missouri and Marcus. "We ready?"

Sam's fear of going ahead with this was all the more reason for him to delay it. From what Dean had learned about all the yoga, tofu-eating crap that Marcus had been spouting, having Sam feeling anxious or afraid when Tara initiated contact could jeopardize his chances of successfully blocking her. The consequences of that would lead to only one place, and it was not pretty. Maybe Sam had forgotten the intensity of the pain, but Dean had not forgotten seeing his brother go through it.

"Missouri," Dean started, then froze as Sam pinned him with a cold stare. Dean's eyes widened before he steeled himself to meet the visual challenge. Sam cocked his head, his eyes hard and lips firmly pressed together, he brought one hand to his hip and raised his chin just a fraction. The body language was obvious and Dean knew his brother had recovered enough to fight him, if he so desired. Dean doubted whether Sam would go so far as to initiate a physical sparring match in front of Missouri and Marcus, but he was not about to risk it. Kicking his brother's ass – or getting his own ass kicked – was not the solution here. If Sam needed to do this now rather than waiting, then fine, he could do it. If it all went sour, Dean would pick up the pieces and once his brother was back together, he would take extreme delight in demonstrating the truth of _I told you so_ in a myriad of exceptionally infuriating ways.

Dean raised his hands and broke eye contact, effectively signaling his defeat. He licked his lips and coughed lightly before turning on a killer smile for Missouri. "Sorry, nothing. Keep going, just ignore me. I've got nothing important to add. You just do your thing. I'll be over here blending into the wallpaper. Consider me invisible. I'm invisible. See." He gestured dramatically and ignored the murderous look Sam directed at him.

"Dean, are you feeling alright?"

"Me, I'm practically glowing. Incandescent actually. Damn near lighting up the room." He could see Sam glowering at him, and he pointedly returned the glare. Sam huffed his frustration as he turned his back on Dean to talk to Marcus. Missouri eyed Dean critically and the elder hunter flashed a winning smile. She frowned, shook her head in what he presumed was exasperation, then left the room.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and swore softly. He retreated to the couch then reached down and plucked lint from the throw rug. Marcus and Sam were still engaged in conversation, and remained so for several minutes. Dean waited, glancing at the clock as the seconds ticked by. Sam eventually looked up at him. "You can go with Missouri now."

Dean licked his lips. "Yeah, I'm just gonna wait until you're, you know. So Marcus doesn't have to leave you to tell us that we can start." He shuffled, suddenly feeling awkward. They had agreed that he would join Missouri, and Marcus would settle Sam in and then call them when it was alright to start. But Dean needed proof for himself before he could willingly participate in something that could end up torturing his brother. But he was not able to fess up to that particular weakness. Far too chick-flick. "I, uh, thought it would be less disruptive if I stayed until, you know. You were… relaxed."

Sam smiled, a knowing glint sparkling in his eyes. "Okay."

Dean looked away, his face flushing. "It just makes better sense, that's all. I'm not worried about your scrawny ass, if that's what you think."

"Uh huh."

"Oh, just get on with it," Dean huffed as he sat back on the couch. He deliberately stared out the window until Sam had settled, cross-legged on the floor. Marcus mirrored his posture, their knees almost touching. The older man rested his hands on Sam's knees, then began talking in a low, almost monotonic tone. Dean watched carefully, holding his breath as Sam frowned, his lips pursed as a look of pain crossed his face. It passed quickly, then the younger hunter relaxed.

It took only a little over five minutes for Sam's expression to become serene and Dean finally comprehended what his brother and Marcus had been mastering for the past five days. He had not seen his brother so calm, so at peace. A little guided imagery, five days of practice, and Sam looked like a yogi master. Dean would kick his ass if he started eating tofu though.

"He's ready."

"Already?" Dean whispered. "You sure?"

"Yes."

* * *

"What did you find out?" Sam pressed, though his head pounded and his stomach felt as though he had been gut punched, repeatedly. He hugged his stomach, knowing he looked like crap, but determined to get some answers from Dean before he collapsed and slept for a week. 

"You sure you're okay? Tara remembered, but she was distraught, sobbing, the whole nine yards. You handled that? I mean, you're not bleeding, your head's okay?" Dean studied him intently and Sam reluctantly allowed the visually invasive probing.

"Dean, for the tenth time, I'm fine. Just tired. C'mon, spit it out already. What did you find out?"

Dean worried at his brow before he pushed his long fingers through his hair. "Her memories are pretty scant, Sam. It wasn't exactly helpful."

"Okay, but she must have remembered something."

"She saw some kind of black vapor, or smoke."

"It's a demon?"

"That's what I thought, but this thing manipulated the knives while in vapor form. Demons are usually lazy and will possess a person to get them to do their handy work. This thing did it itself. And it was fast. Damned fast. One minute her parents were there, next minute they were gory candy floss being tossed around the house. Beth was knocked out and Tara ran and hid."

"Who's Beth?"

"Some woman her parents knew and had invited over for lunch. She had just shaken hands and said hello when candy floss time started."

"And Beth got away?"

"Presume so. There didn't seem to be enough body parts for three people."

"So we can track her down and find out what she saw."

"Yeah, can't be too many Beth's in Perryton."

Sam frowned and leaned back against the wall, bracing himself from sliding to the floor in a senseless heap. He really was not up to this, but he was not going to pass out until he knew what they were facing. "So it was fast like a Wendigo, but without form or substance. A Daeva?" Sam said suddenly, the prospect making his skin crawl.

"I thought of that as well, but it was the middle of the day – there were no shadows, nothing to sustain those bastards. Plus, Daeva's come equipped, this thing borrowed cutlery from the house."

"We have to find Beth. Find out how she escaped. Uh, oh." Sam began a slow slide down the wall. Dean grabbed him and braced him. Sam let his head fall onto his brother's shoulder. "Sorry," he breathed.

"You gonna hurl?"

Sam managed a throaty chuckle.

"Well, are you?"

"No."

"You better not, Sam. I'm warning you."

Sam laughed and kept his eyes closed as Dean hugged an arm around his waist and guided him to the stairs. "Can you make it upstairs?"

"Yeah, just go slow."

Dean moved extraordinarily slowly, gently guiding Sam up the steps and making sure that each foot was firmly planted before moving forward. Sam kept his eyes closed and his head down, his breathing labored by the time they had reached the upstairs hallway. "Hang on," he gasped, "just need a minute."

"Your head?"

"Dizzy. Give me a sec. Tell me what else she said."

"Not much more, except she kept saying it was her fault."

"Her fault?"

"Yeah, as though she caused it. As though something she did resulted in her parent's being murdered."

"Something she did, or does she think she actually murdered them?"

"She actually thinks she did it, but we've ruled out the telekinesis option. Haven't we?"

"Yes, definitely," Sam said, "she's not like Max." His brow knitted as he worked things through in his mind. "She really thinks it was her fault. It's not just survivor's guilt?"

"Yeah, she's really cut up about it." Dean frowned and studied Sam's face. "What are you thinking?"

"Nothing."

"You've got that look, Sam."

"The _I'm smarter than you and you know it_ look?"

"No, the _I've figured something out and I'm not sharing it_, look."

Sam smiled, but evaded his brother's searching gaze. "I'm tired. Can we finish this little chat in the morning?"

"Okay, but I know you're holding out on me, Sam. You've got that sneaky look."

"I don't do _sneaky_, Dean. That's you. You know how shady you look in the leather jacket. No wonder little old ladies trust me."

"Don't change the subject."

"Dean, unless you plan to carry me, can we move now?"

Dean muttered and griped, but assisted Sam down the hallway. By the time they reached the bedroom, Sam's claim for sleep was genuine. He collapsed on the bed and lacked the strength to move a muscle. But before he ceded to sleep, Sam set his internal clock to wake before dawn. He had a theory, and he had to test it before Dean could either stop him, or accompany him.

* * *

Sam walked quietly through the darkened house. He moved gracefully, silently with a determined purpose and stealth that defied the chill of apprehension that snaked through him. On the floor above, Dean and Missouri slept, unaware of Sam's intent and the potential danger. On the lower floor lay Tara. 

He reached her room and hesitated, doubtful anxiety making his hands shake. But, he was a practiced hunter, and several deep breaths erased the unsteadiness. The door squealed just a little as Sam entered Tara's room. He moved to her bed. Steady and purposeful, he reached out. He flinched as unease engulfed him, prickled his skin and stammered his heart-rate. Breathing hard, Sam held firm and moved closer. The sensation shifted, became static-like, almost electric: a hot, sharp tingle that bristled his palm. Fear burned, distinctly out of proportion to the mild discomfort through his hand. Jaw clenched, he stretched, held his breath, then closed the distance. His fingers lightly touched Tara's shoulder.

The air rippled as his fingertips made contact. Molecules pulled and drew taut and the room darkened, the moonlight blocked. Behind him, stagnant air charged with an electric pulse and Sam whirled and ducked. Force hit him high on the left side of his chest. The impact threw him against the wall and held him there. Sharp, iced pain gouged through his shoulder and he soundlessly screamed. Then it was over. Sam slid down the wall, numbly hitting the floor as the pressure dropped and moonlight once again bathed the room.

The speed and strength of it left Sam stunned. Several long moments passed before he could gather his scrambled senses together. Then he scrabbled with his hands, grunted and lurched to the door. In the hallway, he slouched against the wall and panted as black dots danced before his eyes. He had been right. His theory had been right. But, it was faster than he had imagined and stronger. Though, as he had predicted, it had left him alive.

He checked Tara, confirming that the child slept on, blissfully unaware of the maelstrom that Sam had just unleashed from her. He then returned upstairs. Though he had survived, he felt the effects of the attack. His muscles quivered, and by the time he reached the bedroom he was nauseated and deeply chilled. He assumed it was shock, though his shoulder burned and a sharp ache blossomed out from the point of impact. The entity had struck him hard and he imagined he would have one hell of a bruise before the day was out.

He staggered to the bed, accidentally nudging Dean's leg as he moved past. The older man cursed as he came awake, his hands automatically reaching for the shotgun that was not there. Sam sat down heavily. His vision swam, and his shoulder... He grimaced and blinked back tears. There was something wrong with it. More than simple bruising. He looked down. Could see a protruding object. Bile licked the back of his throat as recognition dawned. Scissors, he had a pair of black handled sewing scissors embedded in his chest."Shit," he breathed as a wave of dizziness washed over him. How had he not noticed that?

"Sam, you sleep-walking?"

"Dean, the thing is in Tara and it has been all this time."

"Did you have another nightmare?"

Sam's fingers played at the air around the scissors. He could not bring himself to touch it. "Beth's a psychic, Dean. Tara's parents must have somehow found out about it and hired her to exorcise it. That's one sure way to piss off a spirit – try to evict it from its home."

"Dude, have you been pilfering Missouri's liquor?"

Sam huffed, almost choking as his fingers touched the scissors. Dean must have recognized the sound as being pain induced, because he fluidly moved to the light switch and flicked it on. Sam squinted, his wide open pupils shocked by the dramatic change in light. He was, however, able to see the horrified expression on his brother's face as Dean took in Sam's predicament.

"What the hell?"

"I think I pissed it off," Sam admitted weakly. He managed a thin smile. "Why would Missouri leave scissors in the kid's room?"

"It's her sewing room," Dean said.

"Oh, then that'd explain it."

Dean moved out into the hallway. "Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"Whatever put those scissors in your chest, Sherlock."

"There's nothing here, Dean. Calm down."

"You have a pair of scissors sticking out of your chest, Sam. Don't tell me to calm down. What the hell happened?"

Sam smiled weakly. "I had a theory and I tried it out."

"Are you a freakin' masochist?"

"I didn't do this to myself."

"Then who the hell did?"

"Tara, sort of." Sam tilted his chin down, grimacing as the muscles in his neck pulled on the wound. "There's something in her, Dean. Some kind of spirit or entity that is sharing her lifeforce. That's what I've been sensing all this time. When you said last night that she blamed herself, I got to thinking."

"Dammit Sam, if you have a theory you share it," Dean ground out. He prowled to the window and looked down into the street.

"There's nothing out there, Dean," Sam pressed, wishing his brother would quit moving, it was making him nauseous. "It's back inside her now, and it'll stay there as long as it doesn't feel threatened."

"You telling me that the kid is _Carrie_?"

"Not exactly. Well, maybe, kind of. She's not dangerous though… not unless the thing in her is provoked."

"And you provoked it?"

"I touched her and that pissed it off." Sam shrugged, immediately regretting the action as pain flared through his shoulder.

Dean moved to him and knelt down. "She did this with telekinesis?"

"No. There's an entity inside of her. She doesn't even know it's there."

"The EMF meter didn't pick it up."

"Yeah, I know, I don't get that"

"What if it's like MPD?"

"Multiple Personality Disorder. How?"

"You tell me, college-boy. Don't all you geeks do Psych 101?" Dean braced one hand against Sam's shoulder, leaning him back a little so he could see the injury clearly. "They don't seem to have gone in far. But Emergency is going to be a bitch this time of night."

"No hospital."

"They've got to come out, Sam."

"You do it. They're not in far, it's hardly serious… just kinda painful."

"The ER can give you pain relief. You're looking a little green."

"It's just a bit of a shock. Take them out, bandage me up and I'll be fine."

"You sure about this?"

"Yeah, we've got work to do."

Dean considered him then quickly stood. "I'll be back. Don't move."

Sam had no intentions of going anywhere, but he did need a distraction. He reached one-handed for the laptop. He had it powered up and connected to the internet by the time Dean returned.

"Thought I told you to sit still," Dean said gruffly as he eyed Sam's one handed and shaky efforts to surf the 'net.

"I felt an electrical charge, like a low voltage when I reached out to touch her. MPD wouldn't explain that. Although it's possible for one part of a split personality to have psychic ability and the other to know nothing of it, the force I felt went way beyond mind control." Sam turned back to the laptop, wincing as the movement tugged at the wound. "There's definitely an entity in her, and somehow her parents figured it out. I wonder if Beth went online, sought help from a message board or something, before trying to exorcise it."

Dean opened up the first aid kid and sorted through, carefully selecting bandages, antibiotic cream, tape, saline solution and a number of other things that Sam did not want to know about. He kept his eyes on the laptop.

"She's asleep," Dean said as he worked.

"You checked on her?"

"You've just told me that she has a homicidal entity in her, so yeah, of course I checked on her."

"She's not dangerous."

"How about I don't take your word for it, Edward Scissorhands."

"Hilarious, Dean."

"Yeah, well, I have to do something to lighten the mood cos you sure as hell have crapped all over it." Dean knelt before him, wincing as he took in the wound. "Last chance for the hospital."

"Just do it."

Dean cut away Sam's t-shirt, the muscles in his jaw tensing as he worked. Things were going smoothly enough until Dean removed the scissors. They came out with a vicious pulling motion that did not match the shallowness of penetration. Sam's vision darkened and he realized that they had been wrong to try for home surgery. Hadn't Dad hammered that into them… penetrating wounds should never be fucked with. His thoughts tore away as pain scoured through his chest, firing nerve endings and pain receptors in a synchronized and brutal demonstration of raw agony.

He barely had time to register the assault before Dean cursed, shoved him hard on to his back against the bed and straddled him. Dean pressed down on the wound and the further insult of pain tore a ragged scream from Sam's lips. Sweat broke out across his body and he fought to push his brother away.

"Dammit, Sam. Keep still!"

Sam's muscles burned with exertion as he increased his attempts to escape the unbelievable pain, but as long minutes passed and Dean kept the pressure on the wound, Sam's breathing grew shallower. Coldness leached away the burn. Soon, he could no longer feel his hands, or his feet for the numbness that closed around the chill. His struggles lessened then ceased. His eyes slipped closed as he sank.

"Sam! Sammy, stay with me!"

Sam jerked, his eyes springing open. He gulped, crying out as senses sharply came back online and pain seared through his shoulder. He struggled against it.

"God, Sammy, don't move!"

The terrified desperation in Dean's voice finally registered, and Sam stilled as best he could, though the pain made him restless. He panted hard, then groaned and shifted. A firm hand halted his movement. "God. Dean, please."

"I know Sammy. I know. Just a bit longer, I promise."

Sam turned his head away, his wide eyes fixed on the far wall and a painting of two deer standing in a forest. His right hand fisted in the sheet and he restlessly tugged. He sought to regulate his breathing, to find a calm that would enable him to tolerate the pain. He came close, until he felt a different, sharper sting, and the pull of something threading through his broken flesh. His calm fled.

"No!" He wrenched his brother's wrist away from his chest. Thick red blood coated Dean's fingers, the needle and surgical thread similarly gored. His mouth went dry, his vision spiraling as Dean growled, shoved Sam's hand away and pinned the wrist beneath his knee.

Sam looked up at his brother, his wide fear-filled eyes taking in the pain in Dean's. His lips pursed to argue, but he could not form words. The needle dipped down and in. He felt the sharp sting and an awful pulling that threatened to bring him completely undone. He weakly twisted. The needle dipped again and Sam turned his head away. He drew in a shallow breath and held it, trying not to scream as the slow torture continued, methodically wearing him down.

By the time it stopped, Sam's consciousness had ebbed to the point where he no longer had any ability to fight, or even move. He lay compliant as the bed dipped and weight shifted. A shadow momentarily blocked the overhead light – a moment later he heard the rattle of plastic, the rustle of paper then the metal slide of a zipper unfastening. He shivered, his vision shifting, weaving and turning. His right hand cramped and he loosened his grip on the crumpled, blood stained sheet. The deer pair shifted, their fawn coats mottled in the painted afternoon sunlight. He blinked, and the painting slid back into focus.

"Sam, you still with me?"

He squinted at the blurred shape that leaned over him. He ran his tongue over his lips but could bring no moisture. Another long, raking shiver tore through him, dredging pain that played knock-down dominoes with his already depleted reserves. Something moaned, a pitiful drawn out sound like a mortally wounded creature. He distantly realized it had come from him.

Something touched his brow, pushed his hair back and rested there. It was comforting, warm and tender, and he let his eyes slip closed. He drifted, tugged upwards by pressure against his shoulder that briefly warred with the heavy, numbing ache that anchored him to darkness.

He felt a sharp sting, then a deep bubbling resonating pain. Startled, he opened his eyes, bringing a hand up to collide with something soft. He squinted, blinking at the foggy blur that prohibited comprehension. The shadow returned and something moved in close. He inhaled the familiar scent of too much aftershave combined with the bitter stench of fear. He knew that scent so very well. He fumbled, his fingers blindly numb as he reached out, searching. He hiccupped, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and unexpressed need. Something caught his fingers then curled around his hand – a warm touch – familiar comfort.

"Easy Sammy, I've got you. It's over, you're okay. Close your eyes." The tender touch started a gentle rhythmic stroking motion along the back of his hand, to the knuckles of his fingers then back up toward his wrist. Sam drifted, then darkness pulled him down.

* * *

When Sam finally lost consciousness, Dean backed away his hands shaking. His gaze slid to the fresh gauze he had taped to his brother's shoulder, and his mind's eye relived the past thirty minutes in hideous technicolor. Assaulted by the memories, Dean panted heavily, the left over adrenalin burning the blood through his veins. He reached the door, slouched against it then grabbed with his hands to stop the vertigo that threatened to send him to his knees.

He moved into the hallway and wove his way to Missouri's room. Blood left a long smear on the cream wall when he flicked on the light.

"Missouri," he said. His knees weakened and he clutched at the doorframe. The psychic stirred in her sleep, but did not wake.

"Missouri," Dean said again, but he could not get his mouth to work, his voice came out rasped, low… breathy and ineffectual. Panic stirred through him. He had to get back to Sam. He had to check him. "Missouri," he tried again, louder this time, but still painfully weak. His vision blurred and he struggled to see if Missouri had roused.

"Dean? Oh my gosh, honey. You're hurt."

"No. Sam. Bedroom."

For an old woman with bad knees, Missouri moved surprisingly fast. "What happened? Is he okay? Oh God, he's not…."

"No. He's okay. He's okay." Dean drew in a shaky breath and slouched against the wall. "I need… I need you to watch him. I can't… it… he's… please."

"Dean, sweetie, you're in shock. Sit down, put your head between your knees. I'll check Sam. Stay here. Don't move."

Dean slid to the floor as his vision blackened. Missouri hurried down the hall and disappeared into Sam's room. Several seconds later, Dean pushed himself up and followed, driven by a fear… a need to be with his brother.

Events happened in random, chaotic flashes then. Somehow he was back in that room, looking down at his brother. Missouri gasped. Dean grunted in denial, then he had his cell phone and was dialing 911. He must have said the right things, given the right address, because the operator reassured him that it would all be okay. But some stranger with a reassuring line and false comfort did not change the reality of Dean's situation. Instead, it froze him to the core. He stared almost sightlessly at his wounded sibling. At the blood soaked square of gauze in Missouri's right hand. The one she had just pulled from Sam's chest – the very same one that had been pure white only minutes before.

Blood spilled freely down Sam's side. Unhampered by cotton gauze and entirely unfazed by the neat row of stitches that Dean had sewn into Sam's flesh. The life-sustaining fluid squeezed between the tiny knots and tracked in thick rivulets. Dean flinched as Missouri applied pressure, but Sam remained deeply unconscious and Dean knew that shock and blood loss had driven his brother to a place where pain could no longer reach him.

"I can't stop the bleeding," Missouri said. She sounded shaky and unsure. Dean managed to move – to take over. He was not sure how, but he next found himself straddling his brother as he applied pressure to the wound. It made no difference, only squeezed the blood into a myriad of different paths. Beneath him, Sam's lips grew paler. His skin colder. His pulse slower. And Dean's already painfully fragmented consciousness fragmented just that little bit more.

* * *

**End Chapter Five**


	6. Chapter 6

**ENTITY (Chapter Six)**

When Sam woke, he knew immediately that his brother was not there. The scent, the touch… the presence that was all Dean. It was missing. In its place was an harsh antiseptic stench and other smells that he recognized and wished that he did not. 

He opened his eyes, his attention drawn to the confusion of medical equipment that throbbed and clicked beside him and then to the various lines that fed toward him. He swallowed thickly as he realized that they fed _into_ him. Comprehension skittered and skipped just out of reach as he twisted his neck and looked down. Sure enough, the lines fed into ports at the back of his hand and the crook of his elbow. Bruises and pinpricks of dried blood evidenced failed attempts to access veins around the sites. Several failed attempts, it seemed, and Sam struggled with that. Struggled to understand what it meant. He had such plump, easily accessible veins. It was Dean who had the elusive vascular system, who made nurses work so hard to gain access to his blood – a fact that the older boy flaunted with pride because, he claimed, it gave him time to sweet talk the pretty ones.

"Hey, sweetie."

Startled, he jerked his head to the right and looked into a set of dark and compassionate eyes. "Missouri," he whispered, his parched mouth and seemingly over-sized tongue making a mockery of the name. He squinted, his vision shimmying as he attempted to lock and hold.

"How do you feel?"

_Not so good._ He ran his achingly dry tongue over his lips and shivered. He instinctively reached out with his left hand, the one not ensnared with wires and tubes, to snag the thin hospital sheet that he could feel edged just over his hips. The brief spark of molecular instruction to his left arm drove heated pain through his shoulder. He reflexively stilled and hissed through clenched teeth. Tears stung his eyes and he peered down at the heavy bandaging around his shoulder, across his chest and the taping that held that limb immobile.

Cold understanding teased and tugged at the edges of his blurred consciousness, but didn't quite hold well enough to allow him to make sense of it all. One of the lines into his right arm pulled his attention back to that side. Dark fluid fed from a bag that hung from the IV pole beside the bed. Sam's eyes widened as he stared and the cold understanding became an iced chill. He felt a warm touch on his thigh and though he knew it was Missouri, he flinched, unable to tear his gaze from the almost empty bag of blood. He had never had a blood transfusion… had never needed one despite the various and often bloody injuries he had endured throughout his life. "What happened?" he asked thickly, but he felt sure that it would be safer not to know.

"What do you remember?"

Fragments of memory flashed like broken shards of a mirror through his mind, and he fought to reassemble them. His gaze slid to the right, to the gaping doorway. "Where's Dean?" .

"Oh now don't you be fretting about your brother. Only you were hurt. You don't remember?"

Sam frowned, his breathing labored. He knew Dean had been with him when he had lost consciousness. What happened before that was still a blur. Though he suspected that it would be better to cling to the fragmented memories, he needed them whole. "What happened?"

Missouri hesitated. She looked at the machines that whirred and clicked and Sam knew she was determining his physical state – judging whether he was strong enough to know the truth. That brief pause scared Sam further and he pushed himself up, grunting as his shoulder fiercely protested.

"Sam, no." Missouri warned. "Don't move, honey."

He persisted, brushing her fretting hands away as he gained some altitude. He scanned the room and searched for any sign of his brother. The machine beeped hard and loud beside him, registering the increase in pulse.

Missouri tried another tack. Her tone harsher as she spoke again. "Boy, I won't be telling you twice. You lay back now. Don't you be thinking I won't whack you if you misbehave."

He risked a glance at the black woman. She hovered over him, her words forceful, but her eyes gave her away. She looked scared, and her hands fluttered uncertainly, barely touching. She was afraid to touch him… afraid he could break.

"Missouri, please. What happened?" God, he sounded panicked, scared… small.

She took an unbearably long time to respond. Finally, she said, "There's an entity inside Tara. When you touched her it attacked you."

Sam's eyes widened and he floundered for one blissfully unknowing second, then scissors, blood and unbearable pain flashed through his mind. He grunted, broad-sided by the violence of recollection. The return of memory also afforded Sam a blinding knowledge of what Dean had done for him. That made the older boy's absence ever so much more dire, Dean would never leave him to wake alone after an injury like that… not unless….

"Where's Dean?" he suddenly asked. He scanned the room, the part of the hallway he could see, for the leather jacket, the cocky saunter. He listened for his brother's sultry drawl and hoped to God that the older boy was just checking out the nurses.

"He's… ."

Sam's attention snapped to Missouri. "Where is he?"

"He didn't say where he was going."

"He left the hospital?" Sam trembled, disbelieving. "Where did he go?"

"I don't know." She paused and bit at her lower lip. "He was upset."

"And you let him leave?" Sam exclaimed, grimacing as he levered himself higher. Fear and anxiousness gave him strength and he realized it was false strength as his vision grayed and the machines went into overdrive.

"You don't be getting any stupid ideas, Sam," Missouri said weakly. He ignored her.

"I need to find Dean." He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, bringing part of the thin sheet with him where it twisted around his hips. The IV and transfusion lines pulled tight. He lilted then, headed for a stone-cold nose dive into the hospital floor. It was going to hurt, he realized as the gravity fed descent commenced. Muddled voices and strong hands caught him mid-way. Sam cried soundlessly as he was guided back to the bed, his aching body stretched out and the connecting tubes and machines checked and reset. None of the gentle hands belonged to his brother, and though they treated him with care and respect, he ached for Dean.

As Sam lay there, his consciousness dulled by the warmth of morphine, his tortured thoughts drifted back to his brother. The elder hunter's absence flailed Sam. Ripped strips from him that he could barely afford to lose. The bitter significance of regaining consciousness to find Missouri by his side… but not Dean, was not lost on Sam. Sam now remembered enough to realise that his brother was suffering. Emotional wounds posed a darker threat to the older boy than physical ones. Dean did not do chick-flick, it was a territory that he avoided like the plague. But, Sam knew that Dean had been pushed there, his back against the wall, his defenses destroyed. Left alone, Dean would succumb to emotions that he had no tolerance for… no defense against.

Sam pushed against the sheet again, determined to give liberty a second try, but the drugs, exhaustion and pain slammed a mallet through the pathetic attempt and Sam went down hard. He whimpered, clawed one handed at the thin sheet and turned his head to the side. "Missouri," he started. He stilled as he saw she was on the phone. He stared, wide eyed as the psychic spoke softly to someone.

"He's awake… and misbehaving," Missouri said, and her tone held disapproving reproach. Her words softened as she watched him. "He's asking for you."

Sam's breath hitched. "Dean."

She nodded. He licked his lips and eyed the device. Apprehension and hope thrummed through him and his fingers twitched. He reached out with all the patience of a hungry toddler. His desperation made Missouri frown, but she sighed and passed the handset to him. He fumbled it in haste, almost dropped it before wrenching it to his ear. He breathed hard. "Dean?"

"Sammy?"

Tears scorched Sam's eyes. He suddenly could not breathe – could not speak.

"Sam, talk to me. Please. Sammy?"

"It's Sam," he grunted, shocked by the desperation in the older boy's voice. Dean fell silent and several seconds passed where neither of them spoke. Sam finally managed more words. "Where are you?" He received no response. Sam heard his brother's grated breaths. Imagined Dean's tortured gaze, the fierce set to his jaw that signaled the point of emotional vulnerability that Dean would never allow himself to cross. But Dean had crossed it on this day. Now his brother was adrift, scared and alone. "Dean, please."

"No, Sammy," Dean's voice reverberated against the silence, and Sam knew his brother was crying.

Sam nodded, the tears finally slipping over – the pathetic walls of resistance shattered. "It's okay," he whispered. "I'm okay. We're okay. Really, we're okay." Silence descended again, and Sam listened keenly, the phone pressed tightly against his ear. He glanced at Missouri, then back to the door. "Dean?"

"I'm fine. It's not what you think." Sam heard his brother fight to cover his tears, the sound of his distress.

"Dean—"

"No, I don't. I mean…. Hell, Sammy, you know I don't do this touchy-feely crap."

"I know. I know. But… can you come back now?" He could not quite bring himself to beg, but his weary plea had a heartfelt depth that he could not disguise. Dean again fell quiet and Sam waited, caught in that dark hopeless void between longing and denial. Dean was on a knife's edge, emotionally cracked. Sam could read his brother… and what he read scared the life out of him. He licked his lips to speak again, to try another tactic, but Dean spoke first.

"I'll be there in five."

Dean cut the connection and Sam was saved the embarrassment of his brother hearing him sob. But Missouri heard, and she wiped the tears from his cheeks with her thumb.

"You are both stubborn asses," she said quietly.

Sam agreed, but emotion denied him the opportunity to express it.

Dean was there in three minutes. Which meant he had not been far away. Probably had sat in the Chevy in the hospital car park and played intensively loud rock music until his eardrums popped. That eased a little of Sam's unrest. If Dean had left the hospital grounds, had driven away... Sam left those thoughts go untended. He smiled as he saw his brother and his fingers twitched, the need for contact tangible. Dean loitered by the door, his progress stilted. The older boy raked his gaze over Sam's form and his eyes shone with a telltale brightness that Sam probably should not see. But he could not look away.

Sam cinched his hand closer. Dean glanced at it, then at the tubes that fed into Sam's veins. He swallowed convulsively, pursed his lips and stepped in. He moved to Sam's side and hesitated, clearly unsure of where he could touch his brother without hurting him. Sam reached for him and after an awkward moment, Dean acquiesced and their fingers entwined. Dean snagged a chair, scraped it over and sat down. His jaw worked, as though he was going to speak, but no words came. Missouri moved into Sam's view. He saw her whisper something to Dean, squeeze his shoulder and touch his face. The older boy nodded, and vaguely smiled, then she was gone.

Once alone, they had a chance to talk… but they did not. The drugs, the raw emotion and the warmth of touch communicated all that was possible… and prohibited all that was not. After a few minutes, Sam drifted, drugged and semi-conscious, his eyes locked with Dean's until they lost focus and finally closed. His breath hitched as he tried to fight, but Dean must have sensed the war Sam silently fought because he touched his hand to Sam's forehead and gently smoothed the pain lines there. The tender caress and the scent that was all Dean took Sam down. This time he did not try to fight because he knew that when he woke the next time, Dean would be there.

* * *

Dean drove wordlessly, the early morning sunshine biting through the windshield and warming his bare arms. The small city of Lawrence, Kansas faded into the horizon behind them, and over six hours away lay Perryton. They were going to find Beth, Sam's internet searches had amounted to zip, and neither Missouri or Marcus knew enough to be able to exorcise whatever it was that was in Tara's body. They had left the child with Missouri, Dean did not want her along – did not want her anywhere near his brother. Sam, for once, had agreed without an argument. As long as the child was not threatened, and it was clear that only Sam had the ability to challenge the evil bastard that had taken up residence, then Missouri and Marcus were both safe. 

The plan was that they would return with Beth, or Beth would teach them what to do to exorcise the entity. As plans went, it had its flaws. Finding Beth was the first one. It might not even be her real name, and if they did find her and she would not or could not help, then as far as Dean was concerned, it was over. They would walk away. They had an uneasy agreement on that, but Dean was not naive enough to think that if it actually came to pass, that he wouldn't be up for one hell of a fight with his brother.

Sighing, Dean glanced at the younger man. Sam sat quietly, one hand occasionally unconsciously drawn to the wound at his shoulder. His left arm was held in a navy blue sling, and though he had spent two days in hospital and had been medically released, he still looked wrung out. Exhausted. Vulnerable. The hospital had given Sam drugs to mask the considerable pain he experienced, and to stave off infection. Dean had expected the medication to take his brother down. They didn't. For whatever reason, Sam fought the sleep that he so desperately needed. Dean squared his shoulders and pushed back in the seat, even being back on the road did not dull the increasingly intolerable emotions that scoured his gut.

Sam could have died, he damn well nearly did. Dean had had to employ hideous brutality in a vain attempt to save Sam's life. And then that had all gone to hell. The horrific damage to the muscle and flesh had so viciously compromised Sam's vascular system that his body had been unable to stop the bleeding. Dean's patch up job had bought time, but it was the medical team, three hours of micro-surgery and two blood transfusions that had saved Sam's life and given him a shot at a full recovery.

Then the stubborn asshole had managed to wrangle an early release, claiming a family emergency. Dean had tried to de-rail that one, but had failed miserably. So here they were, back on the highway because Dean could not convince his brother to let this one go. To walk away. To doom Tara to a tortured existence and to leave the rest to dark destiny. He would do it, in a heartbeat. Screw the consequences. Screw the guilt. But Sam would not back down. He even had the utter gall to quote Dean's words back at him – protect the innocent, or some such cocked up shit. That had hammered into him like a fist of nails in the face. Since when did Sam actually listen to him anyway.

Dean swallowed sourly, tightened his grip on the wheel and pressed the accelerator harder. Sam flinched and grabbed at the seat. Dean deliberately ignored the look his brother threw at him, but he did ease off on the accelerator. He did not want to scare Sam or cause him further pain, he just did not want to accept the new found reality of their situation. And he sure as hell did not want to talk about it. He had made that particular fact crystal clear to his brother several times over the past few days, despite Sam's best attempts to coax it out of him.

He leaned over, cranked up the volume on the stereo and hummed to the throbbing rock beat. If Sam wouldn't sleep, then there was no reason Dean had to suffer the silence along with him. He had just started to relax when Sam flicked off the tape and ejected the cassette.

"Sammy," Dean growled threateningly.

"It's Sam," the younger man responded tightly as he wound down the window. He shoved the tape outside, his fingers clutched at the cassette. Sam's faculties were hardly up to speed and Dean regarded his precious tape with raw apprehension. "Spill, or Metallica buys the farm."

"You little shit." Dean cursed as he hit the brakes, forcing the Impala into the gravel at the side of the road. He turned to face his brother. "Sam, I'm warning you."

Sam jutted his chin, openly challenging. With a deliberate flick of his wrist, the cassette launched and landed with a soft clatter on the blacktop. "Oops," Sam said with feigned regret.

Dean glowered at him and his anger pulsed. Sam knew damned well that Dean would not lay a finger on him until his shoulder had healed… and then probably not for a long while after that. Which was probably the only reason why Sam was so blatantly pushing his buttons. "You are going to regret that, Sammy boy," he growled as he shoved the door open and leapt from the car.

Sam hauled himself from the passenger seat and met Dean at the back of the Impala. "This is bullshit, Dean. What's going on with you? Since the hospital you've been different, quiet. I know something's bothering you, so fess up."

Dean brushed past him, grunting as he was jerked back by his collar. He felt a rush of cold air as a semi roared past them. He grunted and yanked himself free, checking for further traffic before he stepped out onto the road. The tape was gone. He found it twenty feet up the highway, the plastic case splintered, the chocolate brown reel crushed and torn.

He hunkered down and slowly collected the pieces of tape. It had been his favorite and Sam knew it. Sam reached his side and his pained exclamation revealed that his intent had not been the tape's destruction. But that was the only hard truth in life: things do not go as planned. There were no guarantees, no safe moves. Sam should have learned that already, but Dean saw that he had not. If he had, they would not be on their way to Perryton, Texas.

Dean returned to the car, slid behind the wheel and waited for Sam to join him. He fingered the broken plastic, keeping his head down as Sam awkwardly slid into the seat and quietly closed the door. Silence descended and he knew Sam would break it. His brother did not cope as well as he did with unresolved tension. Predictably, Sam spoke first. "I'm sorry."

Dean knew he was referring to the tape. The apology actually sounded sincere. "You hated that thing."

"But it was your favorite."

"Yeah well, you'll get me another one. Second hand music shops will be your best bet." He licked his lips, drawing his gaze from his brother's haunted eyes. "Or you could try Ebay."

"This isn't about the tape, Dean. What's going on, man?"

Dean snorted and tossed the broken fragments onto the back seat. He moved to start the ignition, stilling as Sam touched his arm.

"Dean, please. Talk to me."

"No chick-flick moments."

"This is about Tara, isn't it? About why I didn't wake you before going to her. Dammit, Dean, I didn't tell you my theory because I was scared she would hurt you. I was trying to protect you."

"You shouldn't have."

"What would you have done? C'mon, man. I sensed it, I knew where it was. I felt it before it struck. You wouldn't have known where it was and it could have seriously hurt you."

"Well, Indiana, you didn't do so well yourself. Give me some credit here. I'm not stupid enough to let some spirit slice me open with a pair of freakin' scissors."

"Fuck you." Sam fumbled with the door and pushed it open. He was out of the car a moment later.

Dean cursed himself and his stubborn brother. He followed suit, grabbed Sam's uninjured arm and pulled the younger man around to face him. He expected to see tears, or rage, but Sam's expression was oddly calm.

"You are such an asshole," Sam said. "If you'd been there it would have turned you into candy floss, just like Tara's parents. Are you so arrogant that you can't see that?"

"I know."

"You know what?"

Dean shuffled where he stood. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stooped his shoulders. A car flashed past on the highway, its occupants eyeing them suspiciously. He wet his lips. "We're making a scene. Let's get going." He started back toward the car.

Sam moved so he stood directly before Dean, blocking his path. "Are you scared of me?"

"What? Where the hell did that come from?"

"Is that what this is about? Do you think that something will get into my head and manipulate me into hurting you, like at the Asylum?"

"You were possessed. Ellicott could have just as easily overpowered me and I would have shot your ass full of rock-salt. It happened, we've been over this."

"Maybe we need to go over it again."

"Oh, c'mon Sam. I'm not scared of your spoon-bending powers, okay. Get over yourself."

"Then what?"

"You're like a dog with a bone sometimes, you know that."

Sam huffed, bringing his right hand up to rest on his hip. He pursed his lips and his eyes narrowed. He regarded Dean silently.

"Oh, c'mon already," Dean groused, making another attempt to move past. Sam stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "What do you want? What do you want me to say?"

"The truth."

"You can't handle the truth," he drawled, raising his eyebrows as Sam failed to see the humor.

"Quit jerking around, Dean."

"Fine, don't get your knickers all bunched up. I just think you should have told me about your whacko theory before you marched in and let Tara's little freaky pal slice you open."

"What would you have done?"

"I would have covered your back."

"You would have come into the room with me?"

"Hell yeah."

"That is precisely why I did not tell you."

"Do you actually think you did me a favor?" Dean started, suddenly angry. "You think it was better for me to wake up and find you with a pair of scissors stuck in your chest? And you think that I had fun holding you down while your blood gushed all over my hands. Don't forget the fun I had stitching you up without any form of pain relief. But, hell, the real kicker, Sammy… watching you bleeding out because that thing had so right royally fucked you up that your blood wouldn't clot. Do you have any idea what that was like. Do you?"

Sam paled. "I'm sorry that you had to go through that," he said quietly.

"Don't ever do that again, Sam. Don't you dare."

"You saved my life and I can't thank you enough. But I'd do the same for you, Dean. It's what we do. It's what this whole screwed up life has forced us to do."

"No, that is what we _used_ to do. Now things have changed. These visions of yours, these things that can invade your mind, can screw with you without even touching you, have changed it."

"Marcus has taught me to control the visions – how to protect myself."

"That didn't work so well for you three days ago, huh?"

"I knew it wouldn't kill me. It didn't kill Beth and she was a psychic. And, it lashed out when she touched Tara. You're not psychic Dean, it would have killed you, like it killed her parents."

"Dammit, Sam. We don't know that Beth got away uninjured. We don't even know for sure that she's psychic. And, anyway your theory has great big holes in it. Missouri and Marcus are psychic and it didn't go them. For someone so smart, you can be so freakin' dumb."

Sam looked down. "I can't explain... I just knew."

"Oh great, another one of your spidey-sense things. Freakin' fantastic." Dean ran a shaky hand through his hair. "I get that there are things that you don't share. That you need to have some privacy. But not this, Sam. It almost killed you. Christ, if you'd just said something before you marched yourself in there."

"I took a calculated risk and I got us the answers we needed. It was my choice."

"You still should have told me."

"No. I can't trust you to keep out of the way. Yeah, I needed you to back me up, but I knew you wouldn't do what I told you to. So I did what I had to do to keep us both safe."

"You could have bled out in the hallway," Dean said numbly, his throat constricting. "Don't you get that?"

"I do. But until you can prove to me that you will follow my lead and not pull some heroic big brother stunt, I will do whatever it takes to keep us both safe."

"Those big brother heroic stunts have saved your life countless times, Sam."

"Not in situations like this."

And that was the crux of it. That was what it came down to. The rules had changed. The big brother protectiveness that Dean held so dear was now being held against him. Dean wordlessly turned his back on his brother and returned to the car. Sam followed him and the younger man actually had the good sense to button his lip. Silent fell long and hard between them, and somewhere down the road, Sam fell asleep. Drug induced and restless, but it cut the tension that had been building since their mid-highway altercation.

None of what Sam had told him came as a shock to Dean. It had been festering in his subconscious ever since Sam had succumbed to the vicious connection in Bridgeport, Nebraska. And in Perryton, Dean had been given a stunningly brutal introduction to Sam's new world. He had recognised it then, and had reacted with all the force and revulsion that his tortured psyche could rain down on him. The brave new world that Sam faced alone was filled with blood, severed fingers and decaying entrails. And that was probably the sanitised part. And Dean could to nothing to protect his brother from any it. He had tried, and had been called up on it -- once when he had foolishly thought he could rely on modern medicine to fix the supernatural. Sam had paid for Dean's foolishness with pain and blood. The second time when Sam had recognised his brother's weakness and had cut him out, and that had almost cost Sam his life. Dean had to stomach the change. He had to face the plate like a man. He risked a glance at his brother and his heart clenched. He was not sure that he could.

* * *

They reached Perryton just before nightfall. It was just as unattractive as it had first time around, but it allowed Dean some peace from his painful introspection. He collected drive through burgers then chose the first motel he came across that displayed a vacancy sign. He got them booked in. 

"Where are we?" Sam croaked when Dean slid back into the driver's seat to move the car to their allotted room.

"Perryton," Dean answered simply as he started the engine.

Sam rubbed one handedly at his eyes, yawning loudly. His elbow joint popped as he languidly stretched. "Motel?"

"Yeah."

"Good one?"

"Good enough."

"It was my turn to pick."

"Next time."

"No fair."

Dean swung the car into the space outside their room and cut the engine. He turned in his seat to study his brother. "You're sounding awfully Sammy-like, Sam."

"Sammy-like?"

"Yeah, chubby twelve year old Sammy."

Sam blinked at him, his eyes glazed and eyelids heavy. "Oh. Okay."

"You're no fun when you're off your face, Sam." He rolled his eyes as he heard his brother apologise. "Just stay awake. I'm not carrying your ass into the room."

"I'm 'wake."

"Yeah, sure you are."

Dean helped his brother into the room, only leaving him at the bathroom after Sam shoo-ed him away. "Get lost," Sam slurred, a stupid grin on his face. He looked plastered.

"Don't lock the door, Sam," Dean ordered as his brother tottered into the small room, intent on taking care of his personal business before passing out on the bed. "And stay awake for your meds. You're due for another dose."

"Oh yeah, drugs are good." He started humming some rock beat that Dean did not recognize.

"Just don't take a header into the John."

"No headers in here."

Dean sighed and collected their bags from the car, relieved to see Sam re-emerge from the bathroom unscathed. He stood by the door for a moment, looking around blearily. Dean frowned, disturbed by his brother's doped state. It was to be expected, but it still unnerved him.

He knelt by Sam's bag, his hands shaking as he unzippered it. He found Sam's medication and carefully selected the pain pills and antibiotics. Missouri had also packed a plethora of herbal remedies, vitamin and mineral supplements and a powder that Dean could make up as a liquid meal replacement if Sam could not eat.

"You hungry?" he asked as he straightened up.

Sam had moved to the bed and now sat at the edge. He stared blankly, but responded to Dean's question. "What you got?"

"Burgers and fries."

"Predictable."

"Was that a yes or a no?"

"Maybe."

Dean retrieved the burgers and placed one beside Sam. His brother regarded it with little interest. Dean sighed and collected a small bottle of apple juice from the motel's fridge, uncapped it and mixed one of the meal replacement sachets into it. He passed it and the prescription pills to Sam.

"This lot's non-negotiable."

Sam regarded him dopily before accepting the pills, he put them in his mouth then took the bottle and chased them down with the juice.

Dean sat heavily on the bed and watched his brother. Sam finished the drink then looked down, his eyes slipping closed. Dean checked his watch, his gut twisting. Sam was awfully out of it… too out of it to be taking more pills?

He worried at his brow, remembering the doctor warning him that Sam could be like this for the first day or so, and that he had to give Sam the pills even if his brother was still doped to the eyeballs. They would protect him and ensure that he had a continuous barrier against the pain and the risk of infection. Dean would not compromise that, and he was meticulous about keeping track of the timing of Sam's doses. He had not made a mistake.

Sam lilted and Dean moved quickly, catching him before he fell. He eased him onto the bed, realizing that Sam was asleep before his head had hit the pillow. He got his brother settled, covered him with a blanket and made sure his injured shoulder was protected.

Dean knelt then and watched his sleeping brother and he couldn't quell the surge of protectiveness, of fear that he held for his sibling. Though twenty-three years old, Dean saw Sam as a baby, a toddler, a sensitive pre-teen and a questioning, solemn eyed and headstrong adolescent. The man that Sammy had become was lost on Dean when Sam was in danger. Beneath the lithe muscular form was a gangly, awkward, doe-eyed boy with cute dimples and a mess of unruly hair – Dean's baby brother. The person that Dean would do anything to keep safe – he would give his life for, in a heartbeat.

The ache that worked through the elder hunter, that cut through his memories and cleared his eyes forced him to see the real Sam, the strong, capable hunter, intelligent, confident, instinctual and courageous. The man who now had visions, premonitions and psychic abilities that were foreign to Dean, a whole new battlefield on which Dean was not a warrior. Sam fought alone and Dean had to trust that Sam could. And he did trust. He trusted Sam, he relied on him, he had no doubts about his ability to protect himself and to protect Dean… but this. This was going to take some serious psychological re-wiring before it would fit.

Dean brushed the hair back from Sam's forehead. Let his fingers run through the soft auburn strands. "You'll always be my Sammy," he said, his voice breaking. "But I know that you're Sam. Give me time to reconcile the two, little brother. I just need some time."

* * *

**End Chapter Six.**


	7. Chapter 7

**ENTITY (Chapter Seven)**

Sam had lost count of the times he had woken, or of the number of pills he had taken, or the number of bleary-eyed, nonsensical conversations he had had with his brother before he had passed out again. All those separate events ran into a blur, but this time held just a little more promise. 

He lay still as consciousness returned, remembering that sharp movements brought pain or nausea, and sometimes both. Neither his stomach nor his body seemed particularly friendly at the moment and he was keen to not piss either off. Slowly opening his eyes, but still not moving his head, he blinked to clear the fuzzy vision. The room was in darkness, the pillow hard against his ear. Even if he was not going to stay awake for long, he needed to roll over to his other side and flatten the other ear. Then he remembered that he could not. His left shoulder prohibited even the thought of laying on that side. No wonder his right ear felt as though it had been steam ironed. He swallowed, tasting dry sourness in his mouth. He needed a drink.

He blinked again, sighing softly as he tested his muscles, moving his legs just a little. He could see Dean. His brother was seated by the window, the curtains drawn and the television on. By the look on his brother's face, Sam realised that Dean was enjoying whatever program he had tuned into. He shifted a little so he could see the screen. It flashed and wavered, confusing. He squinted, taking in the shapes, the colors and the images in an attempt to make sense of them. Several faces appeared before one that he recognised. He huffed softly, his eyes widening. "Oh dude," he breathed, "you and I need to have a serious talk."

Dean jumped, his face flushing. Papers flipped and scrunched as he hurriedly ferreted around on the table.

Sam carefully pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The action left him feeling a little nauseated, but not enough to miss out on the delight of having caught his brother out. "Oprah," he exclaimed. "Oprah," he repeated, carefully drawing the name out. Dean growled, a low guttural and threatening sound and Sam laughed. "No 'chick-flick moments', huh? Sure, no sweat, man. No warm, fuzzy, sensitive side there. So, spell it out for me. Just how does Oprah fit into that picture?"

"Shut your cake-hole, bitch," Dean warned. He found the remote and flicked the television off. The room cascaded into darkness, staying that way for a minute until Dean moved from the table and flicked on an overhead light. Sam blinked, forced to laugh harder as Dean glowered down at him. Dean's dark gaze only served to worsen Sam's levity, forcing him into that state of uncontrolled laughter that bordered on pain. Sam realised then that he would pay a high price for ridiculing his brother, and he tried to stop, he tried to get off the runaway cart that was hilarity before he crashed and burned. But the cart was out of control.

Dean stalked around the room, mouthing off but Sam couldn't grasp the words. Pain caught in his chest and ripped up his shoulder. He struggled to breathe and at some point Dean recognised the shift between the sound of Sam's laughter and the sound of his pain. Sam felt Dean at his side, felt his brother's warm touch, heard his soothing words. Tears sprang to his eyes as he bent forward, fighting to regain his breath. Dean rubbed his back, offering him an anchor away from the pain. It worked, and within moments Sam had his equilibrium back and was able to breathe normally. Despite the pain, the levity had not left him and he found himself giggling tentatively, caught on that precarious edge where even the most innocuous action could start it all off again.

"Settle down, Sam."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

Sam hiccupped and giggled harder. Gently he pushed his brother away. "Don't speak," he begged. "Go."

Dean raised his eyebrows, but did as requested. Sam bowed his head, coughing to clear the residual ache through his chest. He breathed as deeply as he could and forced his thoughts away from anything that could cause another fit of hysterical laughter.

"Karma, dude," Dean whispered, obviously assuming he was out of earshot.

Sam suppressed another inane giggle at his brother's dry comment, wincing then grimacing as he struggled against the almost undeniable urge to laugh. He raised his head. Dean stood by the door, watching, clearly uncertain about leaving – about whether he might still be needed.

"Jerk," Sam said, but he daren't not further tease his brother about that television talk show – the one he now tried so desperately hard not to think about.

"Well, you're obviously feeling better."

"Yeah, some."

"Good, cos Barney's Bar and Grill has topless waitresses tonight and we're going."

Sam suddenly did not feel quite so well. "Dean," he started.

Dean held up a hand, forestalling any attempt that Sam could make to weasel out of it. "Don't even try," he warned before he smiled widely, a hint of brotherly maliciousness in the grin. "We're going and you're going to enjoy every moment of it or at the very least you're going to quit your whining and let me have some god damn fun."

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Sam could have said no, he could have stayed back at the motel. They were not bound at the hip and neither was Sam obliged to blindly follow his brother. Barney's Bar and Grill with topless waiters held no appeal whatsoever, in fact, it almost turned his stomach. But, if Dean was going then so was Sam. 

Sam stared out of the Chevy's passenger side window and reflected on his reasons for joining his brother. Dean needed a break, he needed to relax. It was beyond Sam's comprehension how a noisy, potentially violent and seedy bar gave Dean the peace he needed, but it did. He also knew that Dean would not go alone – he would not leave Sam while he was injured, regardless of how cage-crazy he got. So, if Dean was to get some well-needed bar time, then Sam had to get some too, no matter how unpleasant it might be for him.

Sam shifted in the seat, glad to be away from the motel but aware of the uncomfortable sensations through his body. It wasn't quite pain, the painkillers took care of most of that, but it was that edge of wary fatigue that within hours, and without adequate rest, would ramp up to an intolerable level. Sam knew that Barney's would not be kind to his injuries and he knew that in another hour or two it would be more than simple fatigue and no pills would take the edge off it. But he could grin and bear it – for Dean. He could and would do it.

Dean pulled the Impala into a darkened car park, the shockers bounced through the gutter and clunked before levelling out. Sam peered around, searching for the tell-tale Harley Davidson's, revved up street cars and scantily clad females that frequented Dean's preferred hang-outs. He saw none. Instead, he saw a large restaurant, the high glass windows affording him a view of the mixed groups of old and young, families and couples, even kids, that dined there. Sam ducked his head, frowning as he twisted to scan behind them. Dean pulled the Impala into a vacant lot then cut the engine. Sam continued to scan the area, realising that Barney's had to be around the corner and out of sight.

"You want steak?" Dean asked.

Sam glanced at his brother then up at the restaurant's neon _Steak Palace_ sign. "We eating here first and then going to Barneys?"

"Maybe."

"Yes or no?"

Dean twirled the car keys. "Maybe there is no Barney's," he said with feigned innocence.

"What?" Sam watched his brother, observing the sly glint in his eye and the infuriatingly cocky tilt of his head. It dawned on Sam then. He had been duped. They had never been going to Barney's Bar and Grill. "You asshole," he breathed, relief and indignation warring within him.

Dean grinned, clearly pleased to have tortured his little brother so effectively for the past few hours. "Guilty as charged," he chortled as he pushed his door open. "C'mon sunshine, steak's getting cold."

Sam huffed and shook his head. He wanted to be angry, he really did, but he could not. He scanned the restaurant again, appreciating the name and the patronage. The menu was obvious and Sam's mouth watered. If he could have chosen any place to enjoy a meal, it would have been right here. He joined his brother at the front of the car, lightly grabbing Dean's jacket. "Thanks," he said softly as he gestured toward the restaurant. "For this, I know you would prefer to go elsewhere and—"

"Uh, don't go there, bro. It'll just bring you pain."

"Yeah, okay, whatever. Oprah."

Dean's eyes narrowed, his expression hard, but there was a hint of humor, of relief.

Sam moved away from the car toward the restaurant, but movement to their right caught his attention. Something small, darkly colored and low to the ground scampered behind the cars. He caught only a flash of the shape before it disappeared behind a maroon sedan. Sam squinted into the darkness, crouching to see where it had gone.

"Dude, the steak's this way."

"Hang on, there's something there."

"Sam, remember the last time you loitered around in a car park."

Sam huffed, ignoring his brother. He slowly moved deeper into the lot, into an area where the cars were spaced further apart. He felt Dean nudge up against him as he came to another stop.

"Sam?"

Dean sounded worried now, and Sam grabbed at his arm, stopping him from taking point. "I think it's a dog," Sam whispered, sneaking around the side of a car.

"A dog?" Dean exclaimed, his covert attempts forgotten. He straightened and tugged at Sam's arm. "You have got to be kidding."

"It's probably lost, Dean. Scared. I think we can catch it."

"We'll catch rabies. Chicks don't dig the whole foaming at the mouth deal, Sam. I'm not risking this face for a mangy canine."

Sam stopped at the back of the car and rested against the fender. He dropped into a low crouch and peered around the rear of the vehicle. "Hey," he whispered as he came almost face to face with a set of liquid brown eyes framed by a shaggy mop of unkempt dog hair. It was a long-haired mutt, a bit of this and a bit of that. But it had a collar and a tag which meant it had been loved sometime. The dog considered Sam cautiously, tilted its head to one side before tentatively moving one step closer.

"Oh dude, fleas," Dean griped as he nudged in beside Sam. "You're not touching that thing."

"It's a dog."

"It could be _Cujo_. You know your whole _shining_ deal attracts that shit. Not to mention the fleas. It's a freaking flea farm, Sam. Possessed killer fleas. Damn, the shotgun's in the car," he suddenly exclaimed, his tone horrified.

"Dean, you need to calm down. It's a dog. Just a dog. It's not possessed."

"You touch that thing and you're walking back to the motel."

"She's got a collar."

"She?"

"Yeah, no tackle." Sam reached out carefully, smiling as the animal took another tentative step forward. She gingerly sniffed at Sam's hand.

"Sam!" Dean exclaimed. "It could take your fingers off."

"It isn't and it won't."

"You a freaking _whisperer_ now?"

"Dean," Sam hissed, "shut the hell up." He crept forward, now close enough to reach the dog's collar. The animal continued to sniff at Sam's hands, but her eyes watched Dean. Sam tensed, ready to make his move, to grab her collar, but she bolted just as he was about to grab her. He almost fell forward as she sprinted away, a flash of dark fur and now wild eyes. Sam pushed himself up and whirled to face his brother. "What did you do?"

"Hey, back down Dr. Dolittle. I didn't scare it off. It's probably been cornered before and realized you were trying to grab it." Dean quickly scanned the car park then moved toward the restaurant. "Thank Christ for that is all I'm saying. That could have gotten nasty."

Sam hesitated. He stared into the darkness but the animal had disappeared. "Sam," Dean called impatiently. He had stopped several steps away and clearly was going no further until Sam joined him. "C'mon, or I'll leave your ass out here. I'm not joking – and if you get abducted, I won't come looking for you."

Sam chuckled, amused by his brother's weak and false threats. He took one last look around, then turned and joined his brother. "You would come looking for me, smart ass."

"Wouldn't."

"Would."

"You'd be toast, man. Or sausages."

"Thanks for the memories."

"My pleasure," Dean responded, grinning wickedly.

They walked in silence for a moment then Sam added, "You know, Missy had a thing for you. Give her a few years and you and her could've made pock-faced, toothless, bone-crunching children together."

"Gross. You deliberately trying to ruin my appetite?"

Sam shrugged, pulled open the restaurant door and smirked at his now slightly pale faced brother as Dean walked ahead of him. "A bar of soap, a haircut and a new dress and she'd have come up quite nicely."

"You're sick, dude."

Sam laughed as he followed his brother into the restaurant, allowing Dean to take the lead in choosing a table. It gave the elder an opportunity check out the waitresses and to do a little flirting. Sam followed along behind, offering a charming smile as they were seated by a pretty brunette. She responded to Dean's efforts, but considered him with a little more interest.

"What happened to your arm?" she asked after several long moments of considering him and his sling-encased appendage.

Sam frowned, glanced at his brother and swallowed thickly.

Dean quickly cut in. "Car accident," he said, drawing the attention away from Sam. "It was a bit nasty and a bit fresh. No one else was injured," he added.

"Oh, gosh. That's just awful."

Sam forced a smile, but did not trust himself to speak. The girl watched him, her expression a mixture of false concern and morbid interest. He could see her pursing her lips to quiz him further and he flicked his gaze to Dean, his eyes pleading.

"We'll grab a pitcher of beer and one of water. And we'll both have the steak deluxe." Dean deftly folded the menus and passed them back to the waitress, effectively dismissing her. She hesitated, clearly eager to stay, but with no cause to do so, she reluctantly left.

Sam glanced at Dean, then dropped his gaze. He toyed with the napkin, then exhaled heavily. "So, how do we find Beth?"

"There's no hurry. Tara's fine for a while. How about we have a break, get some R and R, maybe find a girl or two. Hell, it's about time you got laid."

Sam's face flushed and he looked away. "We have to find Beth. We have to fix Tara and then we have to get back on the road."

"Yeah, yeah and find Dad."

Sam inhaled sharply, anger rifling through him. "And you don't want that?"

"Of course I want that, Sam. But can't we just chill for a while? You know, take a break, loiter around, do some tourist things… and get you some action. You're not a monk, you know."

"Drop the _getting laid_ jokes, Dean," Sam threatened, his voice low. "It's not funny."

Dean considered him carefully, then shrugged. "Fine. Whatever. But until you can beat me at arm wrestling, we're going to do the tourist thing."

"We don't have time—"

"Actually, we do. I gave Missouri a call last night. She has a couple of contacts that she let know about Tara. They're going to tie up the missing persons side of things and find her a placement for once this is over. Until then, they will keep the heat off any attempts to find the girl. We can take our time on this one, Sam."

"These friends of Missouri's, she trusts them? Because if Tara is taken before we can finish this, more people could die."

"I guess Missouri knows who to trust and who not to. She doesn't strike me as the flaky type who would just spill her guts to any old Joe."

"No. You've got a point. So how much time do we have?"

"Missouri suggested at least a couple of weeks. She figures you'll need at least half of that before you can use your arm properly."

"I'd rather not wait."

"We don't really have a choice, Sam," Dean said gently. "I know it sucks, but for this week at least, getting that shoulder fixed and you off those painkillers is going to be our top priority. I won't compromise that by running off trying to find Beth."

Sam considered him, his gaze dark and pained. He searched Dean's face and Dean suspected that his brother looked for some hint of disdain, of resentment toward Sam's current physical state and the potential liability that it posed. But Sam would not find any of those feelings in Dean, because they were not there.

Finally Sam inhaled, relaxing. "Fine, five days."

"Six."

"Okay six, but we've already done one."

"Technically, two. You slept through the first day. And neither of them are being counted."

Sam's eyes widened. "But it's Monday?"

"Tuesday."

"Shit. You're kidding?"

"No. You needed it."

"So you've seen two Oprah programs?"

"Sammy," Dean growled, "don't go there."

* * *

Just over four hours after their arrival at the _Steak Palace_, Sam sat alone at their booth, his head in a book. He tried to read, really he did, but discomfort that bordered on barely tolerable pain made concentration near impossible. He wearily raised his head and looked across the tables – past the few still seated patrons who seemed intent on staying until the midnight closing time, which now wasn't all that far away – to his brother. 

Dean had attracted the attention of an amorous blonde who he now engaged in flirtatious chit-chat by the salad bar at the far corner of the restaurant. It was inevitable really. His brother was a chick magnet. It was something about the denim, the leather jacket and the smile. There was probably a lot more to it. Sam didn't really get it, but he had repeatedly witnessed the effect that the older man had on women and no longer questioned it. Actually, usually it annoyed him because it distracted his brother's attention, made him lose his focus. But right now he was glad to see Dean playing the flirting game because it afforded the older man a chance to relax and recharge.

Dean and the young woman were both right into it, and had been playing the game for well over two hours. Dean had returned to Sam's table several times, sometimes staying for long enough to down yet another beer before he swaggered back to the young woman. In the past hour though, their playing must have ramped up because Dean now only returned every twenty or so minutes to briefly check on Sam, to gain reassurance that their delayed departure was not causing Sam any discomfort. Sam had been deliberately lying to his brother about that fact for well over an hour, and he intended to do so for another hour until closing time.

At least that was the plan.

Sam sighed and tried slouching in the seat but winced as the changed posture aggravated the bruises on his back. He tried sitting up straighter but that did not alleviate the aching fatigue that wore at him. And as for his shoulder, he struggled to not think about it.

He needed to lie down. He needed to sleep. That was the only sure fire way to escape the pain. He considered stretching out on the booth's seat, but knew that would be a dead giveaway to his brother and he had no intention of influencing Dean's departure time.

He did gaze longingly across the tables though, hoping that Dean would tire of the flirting and want to leave earlier. Dean suddenly turned toward him, catching his eye and Sam ducked his head, his face flushing. His present selfishness and neediness irritated him. Dean needed the distraction from the shit they were presently dealing with. He especially needed a break from Sam, from tending to his injuries and doling out his medication when Sam was too senseless to do it for himself. No, leaving early and denying Dean a reprieve from all of that was not an option.

Sam sucked in a breath and held it, closing his eyes as a wave of dizziness washed over him. He forced himself to blink and to breathe.

"Sam?"

He jumped, grimacing as his muscles tensed. "Dammit, Dean. Don't sneak up on me like that."

"I didn't."

"Bullshit."

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," Sam ground out, irritated. "You don't need to be here."

Dean slid into the seat opposite him and leaned forward, his hands almost touching Sam's. "Look at me."

Sam reluctantly met his brother's gaze, trying for an expression of fierce indignation.

Dean studied him for a moment then his expression hardened. "How bad is it?"

"What?"

"The pain. How bad is it?"

Sam rolled his eyes and coughed lightly, drawing his attention back to the book. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, and I'm Mother freakin' Theresa," Dean snarled. "You are a pig-headed bastard, you know that."

The words stung Sam and he sought to defend himself. "I just want you to have some fun," he explained. "You need some fun, Dean."

"This," Dean angrily gestured toward him, "is not fun." He grabbed Sam's book and offered him a hand.

Sam hesitated then took the offered assistance. He followed his brother to the exit, hesitating as Dean pulled open the door then moved to allow him through. He glanced across at the woman Dean had been chatting with. She had been joined by a friend and both were smiling and watching he and his brother leave. Sam doubted she realised that Dean would never call her, would never see her again. "You going to say goodbye to her," he asked quietly.

"Sam, I'm not in the mood for your self-righteous crap right now."

"That's not what I meant."

Dean studied him, searching his face. Sam held the gaze, allowing his brother to scrutinise him. Dean relaxed a little, his voice somewhat less harsh when he spoke again. "No, I don't need to. She's cool. C'mon, let's get out of here. You're scaring the patrons with those huge black circles under your eyes. You look like you're stoned."

"Nice, man."

"I just tell it like it is, Jimi."

"You do know that most of the Jimi Hendrix drug stories were fiction."

It was Dean's turn to roll his eyes. "Yada yada, Professor. The car's over there."

"I know where it is."

"Then freakin' walk, dude."

* * *

"Your six days aren't up, Sam." 

"I know."

Dean raised his eyebrows and regarded his brother with curious bemusement. "Do you really? If we find Beth and we find out how to beat this thing, we will sit on that information for at least another day. Longer if that's what you need."

"Maybe" Sam retorted, his tone mildly indignant. He toed at the dirt as he swept his gaze around the fairgrounds. "Anyway, my shoulder's fine. It's healed. See, no sling."

"Yeah, I can see that. Unless you've acquired some magical healing powers that you haven't shared with me, there is no way that your shoulder is _fine._ And, you're still popping pain pills, Sam."

"Are you spying on me?" Sam challenged, his face flushing in anger.

"Oh, c'mon, little brother, just because you're managing your own medication now, you didn't really expect me not to still keep an eye on you. "

"I'm not a child."

"No, but you are a pig-headed bastard and that's almost as bad."

"We've already lost five days here, Dean. We have to find Beth."

"I told you that Missouri has that under control."

"You know how quickly a trail goes cold. It's been over two weeks since Tara's parents were murdered, the longer we wait the less likelihood there is of finding Beth. We need to find her."

"We had a deal, Sam," Dean said, deliberately softening his tone. "We agreed on laying low for six days at the minimum. You can't expect to get over an injury like that in under a week. Cut yourself a break. You went through hell. Give yourself a chance to recover."

Sam scuffed at the dirt. "Okay, fine, you've made your point. I'm not ready to take on whatever is in Tara, but finding Beth and talking to her is not physically taxing, Dean. We have to find the woman, find out what she knows, whether she will help us. Once we have a plan we can sit back and grow barnacles on our backsides for all I care. But we need a plan."

"Barnacles, huh. Sounds painful."

"Dean," Sam said, exasperated.

"Okay Barnacle Boy, I can work with that. So they'll have fairy floss here, and those crappy pop the clown games?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Great, those clowns are going down." Dean rubbed his hands together. He raised his eyebrows as Sam huffed and shook his head. "What?"

"We're here to look for Beth. A carnival attracts lots of people, lots of potential connections. Someone has to know her, or know of her."

"Yeah, I get that."

"There's no time for games."

"They're not games, they're practice. Ever notice how creepy those clowns are? I can shoot those red-nosed, crazy haired bitches while you do your whole puppy-dog look thing. You're better at that than me anyway."

"There's hundreds of people here, Dean. I can't speak to all of them on my own."

"Sure you can."

"No I can't," Sam said forcefully. He nudged his brother toward the entrance. "No games, Dean."

"You are one hell of a kill-joy, anyone told you that?"

"Yeah, you. Repeatedly."

"Any of it sinking in?"

"I have a big-brother crap-filter. Most of what you say gets sieved out, doesn't get a chance to sink in."

"Sticks and stones," Dean drawled, winking at his brother. He sidled in behind a rotund woman with a bawling toddler hanging off her arm. He screwed up his face and turned his back on the pair. "You got cash," he asked as he withdrew his wallet.

"A couple of twenties. You?"

"Bit of this and that." He pulled out a five dollar note, checked the admission fee, grimaced and exchanged it for a ten. "Freakin' clowns better be worth it."

"No games, Dean."

"Huh, did you say something? I have a crap-filter too, Sammy," he added as he flashed a toothy grin.

"Jerk."

Dean chuckled, laughing as Sam punched him in the arm. "Christ, you hit like a girl," he said, ducking another swipe from his frustrated sibling. He threw a light swat in return, because it was expected, but it had no force and it completely missed its mark.

Sam shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and adopted an air of casual ignorance. He nodded at Dean to pick up the slack in the queue, then leaned in to his brother, his voice low. "These gigs often have palm readers and psychics. That'd be a good place to start."

Dean nodded, hesitating to allow a small gap to build between them and the screaming toddler. "You packing?"

Sam nodded almost imperceptibly and he shuffled and exhaled heavily as though burdened by the weight of the weapon against the small of his back. "You?"

"Yeah."

"You know we can't when we, you know."

"I know."

Sam nodded and pulled back. He stooped his shoulders and scanned the car park, his eyes taking on that haunted, morose look that Dean hated seeing in his kid brother. The toddler let out with an ear-splitting screech and Dean grimaced. He swung around and addressed the woman. "Dammit, can't you shut that thing up?"

"What did you say?" The woman turned on him, her moist and reddened eyes narrowed. She shoved the child behind her and puffed out her hideously ample chest toward Dean.

Dean opened his mouth to respond but Sam beat him to it. "He has Tourette's Syndrome," Sam explained. He pushed Dean aside, elbowing him to keep him quiet. "He can't help it. It's a medical condition. It makes him say socially inappropriate things."

"Doesn't look like there's anything wrong with him," the woman said suspiciously. She peered past Sam to the open mouthed and quietly seething older boy. "He looks perfectly normal."

"That's what makes it so sad," Sam said. "He looks so normal, but the brain injury, combined with the Tourette's, means that he can't function normally. We've got him medicated, but he is so excited to be going to the carnival. He just loves the clowns."

"You're a relative?"

"His carer." Dean jabbed Sam for that comment and smiled when he gasped. He grunted as Sam elbowed him in return."I've got a letter here that explains everything," Sam continued as he fished around in his jacket for a letter Dean knew did not exist. The woman watched expectantly.

"Fuck, fuck," Dean said. He rolled his eyes as Sam glowered at him. "Fuck you all," he added as an after thought.

Sam flashed a smile and an apology. "He means no harm. He doesn't know what he's saying."

"He shouldn't be allowed out in public," the woman said.

"Neither should you, bitch," Dean bit back.

Sam smiled graciously. "Sorry," he said. The woman glowered at the young man, then the bawling toddler finally drew her attention and she scooped the child up and turned her back on the brothers.

Sam slowly turned to his sibling. He pinned the older man with a pointed glare. Dean opened his mouth and Sam deliberately shook his head. The woman reached the head of the queue a few moments later and Dean tilted his head to the side, nudged Sam and said in a sing-song voice, "Naughty corner, the kid needs a naughty corner."

Sam grabbed him, clamped a hand over Dean's mouth and forced a smile. "Sorry. Sorry," he said as Dean clawed at him. When Sam did not allow him to break free, Dean bit down on the soft flesh of Sam's middle finger. Not enough to break the skin, but enough to cause pain. The attack was effective. Sam cursed and released him.

The woman watched them, anger and disgust playing across her face. She shook her head, disgust winning over, grabbed her screaming brat and stalked into the fairgrounds. Dean rubbed at his face and glowered at his brother. "What the hell was that for?"

"You even need to ask."

"You gave me Tourette's, dude. It didn't occur to you how tempting that would be?"

"I figured you had a few more brain cells than you obviously have."

"That kid needs a damned good hiding."

"That's not the answer."

"Who died and made you _Super Nanny_?" Dean paid the admission for them both then headed into the fairground. The beefy woman had disappeared, but Dean could still hear the wailing child. He deliberately tugged Sam in the opposite direction. He glanced at his brother as Sam rubbed at his hand. He frowned, relieved when Sam stopped.

"I'm just saying that hitting kids doesn't always achieve the right outcome. Dad never had to hit us, Dean, and we turned out okay."

"Never needed to. I kept you in line," Dean responded cheekily. "And I've always been the good son, Sam, you know that."

Sam rolled his eyes. "No, I mean, it must have been hard, two boys and all."

Dean shrugged, once again surprised by his brother's random complimentary observations about their father. He was about to nudge a bit further, when Sam pointed at something across the fairgrounds.

"That looks promising."

Dean glanced at it, briefly noted the purple and gold fringed tent that had caught Sam's attention, then his gaze shifted. "Oh yeah, that does look promising," he agreed as he eyed a well endowed blonde girl in cut off denim jeans and a crop top that just barely covered her breasts. The chilly fall morning accentuated the girl's nipples and Dean's lips curved appreciatively.

"Focus."

"I'm focused."

"Not on her, on the tent."

"What tent?" He yelped as Sam snagged his jacket and pulled him away from the blonde and toward the purple tent. "Oh man, you know how I hate those palm reading freaks."

"Just behave, would you."

Dean shirked out of his brother's grasp and scowled at him. "Fun. F. U. N. What's the harm in having a little."

"We've got a job to do."

"You do the tent thing, I'll check out things over here." He had taken one step in the opposite direction before he was again yanked off his feet. "Dude, enough already."

"Dean."

"Okay, okay." He rubbed at the sleeve of his jacket and quickly inspected it for crease marks from his brother's continual groping at it. "But lay off with the hands, bro. It looks bad."

The purple tent turned out to be a dud psychic on her first day out, she had not even bothered to unwrap the newly purchased tarot cards. And she had no idea about Beth or anyone that sounded like her. The next two hours proved just as fruitless. By midday, Dean bought them both lunch and nudged Sam to a table. "You doing okay?" he asked as he handed over the hotdogs.

"Yeah, just frustrated, you know. I thought someone might know her. Or know of her."

"We don't have a lot to go on," Dean said as he stuffed one end of the hotdog into his mouth. He arched an eyebrow at Sam's disgusted look. "What?" he said, smirking as a crumb ejected itself from his mouth and landed on Sam's hand. He grinned as Sam recoiled.

"That's gross."

Dean laughed and stuffed even more into his mouth. He leaned back, relaxed. He eyed Sam, pleased with the effect the down time was having on the younger man. He was still a way off being fully recovered though, and Dean scanned the fairgrounds for the clown shooting tent that he knew had to be around somewhere. It would do Sam good to pop some inanimate objects for once. Get him to loosen up a bit.

The sound of women's voices tweaked his consciousness and he turned his head a little. Two women had arrived at the next table and were discussing an absent friend.

"_lt's just so odd of her not to come today. I know she's been out of sorts for a couple of weeks now, but even so, she organized this."_

_"And in predictably resplendent Beth Redmond style," the second woman said tetchily._

_"She did ask you to help."_

"_I phoned her last week, Marj, and found her attitude to be condescendingly hostile. She slammed the phone in my ear."_

_"I'm telling you, that's not like her. Something's happened."_

Dean looked across at Sam and saw that the younger man had picked up the same thread. Wordless communication solidified who moved and a moment later Sam stood. He eased into the strangers' conversation with unabashed confidence that charmed rather than alienated. Dean couldn't help but marvel at how rapidly the younger man won their trust. Within minutes, the youngest Winchester was seated with the strangers, sharing their fries and garnering information with grace and ease. It was decidedly unnerving. If Sam were anything other than indelibly moral and pure, the women would have been in trouble.

Dean stood, glanced at his brother to check that Sam was aware of his actions, then left the table. He did not go far, and kept an eye on the younger man, gesturing to him once Sam had left the women and headed his way.

"We got her," Sam said as he arrived at Dean's side. He bounced lightly, his eyes bright. "We can head out there now." Sam lightly tugged on Dean's jacket, grinned then let go and headed off toward the main gate.

Dean kept his feet firmly planted, a wave of anxious unease unsteadying him. Their brief respite was deader than those inanimate clowns would have been had Dean gotten a shot at them. The loss of that semi-normal existence twisted through Dean in a way he had never thought possible. But it was not the past and the lost reprieve that burned through the elder hunter, but rather the future and what it would bring. The future that was now.

* * *

**End Chapter Seven**


	8. Chapter 8

**ENTITY (Chapter Eight)**

"Her name is Bethany Redmond," Sam informed as Dean drove. "She lives alone. The closest neighbors two miles on either side. She sounds like a bit of a do-gooder. She's on at least a dozen committees around town and was active in the community up until recently."

"Up until the attack on Tara's family?"

"Yeah, though the women weren't sure on the dates, the timing sounds about right." Sam scratched at his shoulder, turning to kneading as the itch turned into a dull ache. "Apparently she's a dog nut. She spent months organizing the dog events at the show and then never bothered to turn up. She also used to run training sessions every Saturday at the local park."

"Let me guess, that stopped a few weeks back as well."

"Yeah. So I figure it's her. The attack, both the physical and emotional aspects of it, would have shaken her up. She could be suffering from PTSD. You know, a psychological response to the trauma."

"I know what PTSD is, Sam. I'm not a total moron."

"Didn't say you were."

"Good."

"Fine."

"Turn here."

"Doing it."

"I'll do the talking, you just hang back and smile or something."

"Yeah, no problem, dude. You're better with the geriatrics anyway."

"She's not geriatric."

"As close as. She's over fifty, isn't she."

"You're nearly thirty, Dean. Fifty is not that far away."

"And you're hot on my tail, little brother. So, is that her place?" Dean slowed the car.

"How should I know? Look at the number on the gate."

"There isn't one. There isn't even a gate."

"Yeah there is." Sam pointed. "It's laying with its ass up on the ground."

"Bet the number is on the back of it."

"You volunteering to get out and go read it?"

"No. You? I'm not keen on a round of buckshot in my ass."

"You think she has a gun?" Sam asked, squinting to look up the tree lined driveway. He could see a house at the end of the avenue, but distance denied him much more detail than that.

"Don't know. Probably. Don't all these old spinsters have one in their back closet."

"Then I'm definitely doing the talking, Dean. You know how easily you set people off. I'm not getting shot because you've mouthed off."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"You're welcome."

* * *

The small cottage was more dilapidated up close than it had appeared from the road. Dean parked the Impala beside the rickety garage and cut the engine. He glanced at Sam before they wordlessly exited the vehicle and walked to the front steps. 

"Get off my property," a woman screeched from behind the closed door. It flew open a moment later and the timber doorframe cracked sharply against the side of the house. Sam hesitated, one foot on the top step the other just below. He saw the shotgun first, and immediately flashed one arm out in extension, blocking Dean from moving ahead of him. The weapon's owner appeared a second later, long baggy jeans threading against the floorboards as the fifty-something year old woman stepped outside. Dark sunglasses covered her eyes but Sam saw a shadow of heavy bruising along her cheekbone. He looked down as she cocked the rebounding hammer on the break action shotgun. The action was smooth and practiced, as was the steady aim. Dean had been right, the woman was a crazy spinster with a gun – and she apparently knew how to use it.

"We're not here to cause any trouble," Sam started. A single overhead shot made him duck and behind him, Dean cursed. The woman reloaded. "Please," Sam said, "just hear me out."

The shotgun shifted to Sam. His mouth went dry as he stared at the muzzle now less than two feet from his chest. If she pulled the trigger, he would be dead before he hit the ground. It was hardly a comforting thought. He raised his hands fractionally. "Are you Beth Redmond?"

"That was a warning shot," she stated crisply. "The next one won't be."

"Rose and Hazel gave us your address. You are Beth Redmond?"

"I'll count to three. One."

"No." Sam heard Dean grunt and resisted the tug on his jacket. "We know Tara Scott and we think you might too."

"Two."

"Sam, c'mon."

Sam almost fell off balance as Dean caught his sleeve and pulled. He grabbed at the verandah post just in time to save himself from a tumble down the steps. Flaked paint fell away beneath his fingers and behind him, the woman finished the count of three. He spun back to her and extended his arms to the side. "Beth, please. Five minutes, that's all I ask. I know you know Tara. I know you were there. You were hurt by it and now you're scared. But we can help. My brother and I. Please, five minutes. Just five minutes."

"Don't know what you're talking about."

Sam licked his lips and gestured toward the shotgun. "Could you put that down?"

"No. Hands on your head. Both of you."

Sam put his right hand on his head, but could not properly raise the left. Dean must have followed her instruction because the woman's attention was solely on him.

"Both hands," she jabbed the shotgun toward him as she took a step closer.

Sam tried, but tightness through his shoulder prevented it and he knew his expression betrayed his frustration and pain. Just the effort of keeping the limb elevated was taxing. "I can't," he admitted. "It hurt me, like it hurt you."

Beth jabbed the shotgun forward in a sharp, unprovoked motion. The muzzle rammed into Sam's shoulder, right into the wound site. Pain bladed through him and he instinctively twisted away. Right off the step and into a tumbled fall down the stairs.

He rolled, relying on experience to relax his muscles and limbs so that the impact lessened the potential for injury. When he came to an eventual tangled stop, his shoulder and back throbbed but otherwise he had come off unharmed. The tentative attempts to win Beth's trust had not gotten off so well though and were rapidly being further degraded by his incensed brother. Dean screamed something incredibly insulting and derogatory, his tone high pitched. Bitch, fuck and psycho all bled into one heaped and garbled insult and Sam winced. He pushed himself up, accepting the older man's offered support but shushed him as he continued to grumble and curse. "I'm okay," he reassured.

"Can you walk?" Dean asked, his arm around Sam's back and another at his stomach.

"We're not leaving."

"The hell we're not. That bitch tried to kill you."

"No she didn't. It was an accident."

The woman had moved to the steps, the shotgun loose in her grip and one hand on the railing. She was pale, but composed. When she saw that Sam had suffered no serious injury, she said, "You can have five minutes. I'll tell you what happened, what I saw, but that's it."

Dean's palm flattened out against Sam's stomach, the touch possessive, warning. "We're leaving, Sam."

"No we're not. We need to speak to her. Find out what she knows." He offered a tight reassuring smile to his brother, gently moving Dean's hand away from his stomach. "I'm fine. Really."

Sam shook his head as Dean opened his mouth to protest. He moved up the stairs, nodding tightly to Beth as she murmured an apology. Dean growled low in his throat, clearly not in the forgiving mood. Sam let it slide.

They were ushered into a small living room, the furniture sparse but clean. Photographs lined the mantle over a cold fireplace. Assorted sized frames with images of dogs and people, but mostly dogs. Beagles and award winning if the multitude of ribbons and small trophies that lined the shelves were any indication.

"You have Beagles," Sam said, nodding toward the photos. "They're beautiful dogs."

"Had." Beth said as she indicated that they should sit. Sam did so. Dean remained on his feet, his posture tense. He was wound like a tightly coiled spring, the barely contained tension almost palpable.

Sam sighed and pointedly stared. Dean glowered back, refusing to budge, to relax. Sam recognized big-brother over-protectiveness when he saw it. "Dean," he said tightly, smiling at Beth as she regarded them both. He coughed lightly, clearing his throat. "You said, _had_." He swept his gaze over the images, the awards. One ribbon had been earned just the month before. "What happened to them?"

"The dogs?" Beth queried, her hands shaking. She looked down, fumbling with the now lowered and less threatening weapon. When she raised her head again, Sam saw something close to tears in her eyes. He held his breath, flicking his attention between her face and the shotgun. Had she shot her pets?

He darted his attention to Dean. The older boy had obviously reached the same sick conclusion and he moved closer to Sam, his tall form defensive.

"Makes no sense, you know," Beth murmured. "Tango was eight, Boxer six. I'd had them since they were puppies. They were loyal, loving… but the look in their eyes."

Sam rubbed at his thighs, warming his fingers. "They ran away?"

"No, I let them go. They were petrified, frantic with fear. I didn't realize at first that they were terrified of _me_."

"When did this happen?"

"Does it really matter when it happened," she snapped. "They're gone and I can't have them back."

"Someone else is looking after them?" Sam pressed, really needing to confirm that she had not killed them.

Beth turned hateful eyes on him and Sam flinched. He held the gaze, realizing that the anger was not directed at him, but at the situation the woman had found herself in.

"They ran like the hounds of hell were on their tails," she said woodenly, the anger sliding from her eyes to be replaced with raw devastation. "I won't put them through that again." She leaned the shotgun against the doorway, then considered them both as though assessing the threat they posed.

"But they're alive," Sam said.

"Yes, of course. I returned them to the breeder." She deftly retrieved the shotgun, then said, "I'll make some tea." She retreated into the hallway, taking the gun with her.

Sam turned his attention to his brother. "Dean, sit the hell down, you're freaking her out."

"Did that bitch bust open your stitches?" Dean said as he moved in close, dropping to one knee before his brother. He searched Sam's face.

"Keep your voice down."

"Well, did she?"

"No. I'm fine." He batted Dean's hands away as they attempted to tug at his jacket. "Stop it, man."

Dean drew back. "You're not bleeding all over the Impala, Sam."

"I'm not bleeding at all. Go sit down and try to look less threatening."

"She's got a gun in case you haven't noticed."

"That's exactly why you need to sit down and behave."

Dean grunted, then shoved up and prowled around the room. "I don't like this."

"We need to know what she knows."

"She's a freakin' loony with a shotgun. What else is there to know?"

"You worried that you can't take her down."

"Hell no, Sammy," Dean responded tightly. He withdrew the Glock from the waistband of his jeans, holding it triumphantly as Sam's eyes widened. "I'm worried about the consequences if I have to."

"Put that thing away, Dean. You can't shoot her."

Dean looked vaguely pissed off. He caressed the weapon with his thumb, then tucked it back away, drawing his jacket back over his hips to hide it. "If she so much as touches you again–"

"You'll do nothing. She's scared, traumatized and," he gestured toward Dean, "she let us – you – into her home. Of course she's going to be jumpy."

"That out of the box bitch did not have to push you down the stairs, Sam."

Sam rested his head back against the sofa, shifting to ease the pull on his shoulder. Beth's poking and the fall had not re-opened the wound, but it had hurt like hell. He was not about to share that with his already overprotective sibling. "She wanted proof. Proof that I'd been attacked as well. Shared experiences. It won her trust."

"Shared experiences, my ass. I don't like this. I say we bust this place before she puts strychnine in our tea."

"No, we need to know what she knows."

"Her and Missy Benders would make a great pair," Dean grumbled, tossing another searching look at Sam before he sat down, his hands worrying before him. "They're probably mother and daughter. Watch out if she brings out cookies. They're probably made from the local wildlife that she shoots and minces up. Hell, who says Tango and Boxer aren't in there somewhere."

"Now you're just being plain dumb-ass crazy."

Dean raised his eyebrows as though surprised by the comment. He pursed his lips, his shoulders tense. He darted his gaze around the room, no doubt assessing all of the woman's possessions in an effort to determine her homicidal tendencies. Beth returned to the room, and Dean's attention snapped to her, his eyes narrowed. Sam gasped softly as he took in the injury to the woman's face. She had removed her sunglasses and Sam saw that he had been right. Her right eye was entirely swollen shut, the flesh pitted and bruised. A pale line of stitches tracked along the ridge of the socket and across the bridge of her nose.

"It did that?" Sam asked as he gestured to the wound.

Beth placed a silver tray with three floral cups onto the coffee table. "I was lucky," she said as she poured them each a cup. She looked across at him. "So were you."

Sam nodded and smiled vaguely. Beth flicked her gaze to Dean, raking her gaze up and down, assessing him. A frown formed on her forehead and Sam coughed lightly, bringing the woman's attention back to him.

He reached across and took a cup, taking care to add milk and a cube of sugar. He withdrew and tossed a meaningful glare at Dean. His brother shrugged, all wide-eyed and innocent. Sam deliberately took a long sip of the tea, watching his brother over the rim of the cup. Dean held the gaze, then his shoulders dropped as he gave in.

"Tea looks nice," Dean said cheerily as he reached over and mimicked Sam's actions. "Any cookies to go with this?"

Sam almost choked. He covered his reaction by taking another long and somewhat noisy sip. Beth considered them both before she turned her attention to Sam. "Did you sense it before it struck?"

Sam glanced at his brother. "Yes."

"Then you have powers too."

"I sometimes have visions. That's how we found Tara."

"What did you see?"

Sam related the events that had led them to Tara, then to Missouri, Marcus and eventually back to Perryton and Beth. He was careful to leave out names and he did not elaborate on the pain that the visions had put him through.

She watched him for a long moment after he had finished speaking. "I had a vision too," she started. Sam leaned forward, immediately attentive. She continued. "It was just a flash or two, but enough for me to recognize the Scott's. I knew them, you see. Had helped them pick out a puppy for Tara just a few days before. Poor thing didn't settle in though. It ran away, or tried to. Got hit by a car as it escaped the yard. Tara was so upset that her parents decided to not get her another. Probably for the best. I don't think that child really knew how to look after a pet."

Sam knotted his fingers as he leaned in even closer. "The flashes, what were they like?"

"Brief and vivid. Intense, I guess. They were premonitions of what eventually did happen." She nodded toward Dean. "You've said that he saw the aftermath."

"Did her parents know there was something wrong with her?"

"No. And neither did I until I got there."

"You touched her?"

"Yes. Is that what triggered it?"

Sam nodded. "Before it attacked, did you feel anything. A tingle, some kind of pain against your hand?"

"No. But it all happened with such speed though, there might have been something there, but I don't recall."

"So how did you get away?"

Beth looked down, her hands shaking as she held the cup of tea. "It let me go. There's no other explanation. It went after Maureen and Peter first. Then came for me. It was so fast. I must have passed out, because I woke to find Tara had gone and her parents were…." Beth didn't finish, her breathing unsteady as she exhaled heavily. She placed the tea cup on the table and stood. "I won't go with you. Whatever is in that child can stay there."

"We don't need you to come with us, but we need to know if you tried anything. If you know any way that we can exorcise the spirit from her."

"It's not a spirit. It's a life-force. An entity. Ethereal rather than organic, but not a spirit in the true sense of the word."

"But it can be exorcised. Removed from the host."

"In theory." Beth walked to a bookshelf by the door and retrieved two items. "Take these," she held out a book and a candle. "The exorcism ritual is on page 102. It's the one I was going to try, but didn't get the chance. I think it will work though, if you can get the entity to leave the host first. The candle is cedarwood, renowned for its—"

"Cleansing and purification properties," Sam cut in. "It wouldn't draw out a spirit though. And you've said this thing isn't a spirit."

"No, it's something else. Something almost organic." She shrugged, her attention drawn to Dean. "Is this what you two boys do? You hunt things like this?"

Sam again found his gaze drawn to his brother. He wet his lips, watching Dean as he offered a vague answer. "Yeah, it sort of runs in the family."

"Not much of a life."

Sam's lips tightened and he smiled thinly, his gaze still locked with Dean's. "Nah, it's not all bad."

Dean's eyes lightened fractionally and one eyebrow lifted. "We should go," the elder hunter said.

"Yeah," Sam exhaled. He extended his hand to accept the book, and the candle for what it was worth. As he took the two items, his fingers almost brushed Beth's. Close, but not quite making contact. Sam froze as he felt a familiar tingle through his hand. An almost electric charge, dull but obvious. The static-like sharpness bristled against his fingertips, sliding up his palm.

He jerked back, almost dropping the book. The sensation clung for a moment, inching coldness up his arm, seeking to make contact, to meld with him. But it lost its grip and slid back. He stepped back, his hands shaking. He wordlessly stared into her eyes, searching for some hint that she understood what he had felt. He saw nothing but confusion, a touch of concern maybe, but mostly confusion and fear.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but his tongue was so numb that he couldn't form words. He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on the injury to her face: the torn flesh, the pale stitches, the dark bruising and the still swollen crescent of her eyelids.

"Sam?" Dean called.

Sam shook his head, a bitter breathless denial cold against his lips. He clutched the book, holding it so tightly that his fingers cramped. He heard his brother thanking the woman, saw Dean extend a hand toward her. He reached out to stop his brother, and flinched as the two made contact. Sam expected Dean to splinter, expected his brother to be torn apart… but nothing happened. Dean released the woman's hand, gestured to him and walked toward the door.

Sam nodded, his nostrils flared. A sudden overwhelming urge to run gripped him. He bowed his head and scurried from the room, taking a wide arc around his brother before beating a hasty retreat across the verandah and down the steps. He struggled to breathe, to force air into his suddenly non-compliant lungs. Somehow he made it to the car before his knees gave out. He lurched against the Impala, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm within his chest.

It all made sense. The reason Beth had been spared. It had wanted her. It had claimed her, infiltrated her body through the wound at her eye. Sam sensed it, like he had sensed it in Tara. The very same sensation, differing in intensity but not in resonance.

The next leap was hardly rocket science. It had spared Beth… and it had spared Sam. It had drawn both he and Beth in, lured them, then used them – as hosts. The wound in his shoulder had been its entry point.

Sam blinked back tears of frustration and rage. The dull edge of blind hysterical panic screamed through his mind. Recognizing it and the need to control it, he sharply slammed his fist down onto the Impala's roof. The comforting smack of flesh against metal shocked away the tears. He did it again, and again and as the pain flooded his hand and strobed up his arm, his heart rate leveled out and the panic inched away.

"Hey. Easy on the car, dude," Dean said as he reached the Chevy. He hesitated, the keys jangling with a heavy sound as he stared across the roof of the car. "What's wrong with you?"

Sam's hand stung, but the pain cleared his mind, gave him focus. "Nothing," he bit out. He ground his teeth together and avoided eye contact with his brother. "We need to leave," he said flatly. "Now."

* * *

**End Chapter Eight**


	9. Chapter 9

**ENTITY (Chapter Nine)**

Dean tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on his quietly brooding younger brother. "Sam, what the hell is up with you?" 

"Nothing."

"Nothing my ass. Did you hit your head?" Dean reached for him, intending to check his skull for any telltale lumps or abrasions. Sam smacked his hand away. The force whacked Dean's knuckles into the Chevy's dash and he yelped. "Dammit Sam."

"Don't touch me."

Sam's eyes flashed and Dean raised his hands. "Okay, dude. Fine. No touching, but look at me, Sam, into my eyes."

The younger boy tensed, then warily turned so that Dean could see his eyes. The expected uneven dilation that would suggest a head injury was not present. Dean searched his brother's face anyway, unnerved by the hard and determined expression. "Oh, I get it now," Dean breathed. "this is another don't trust big brother episode. I thought we'd sorted this shit out."

"That's not it."

"Then what is it? Did that bitch shove a shot of estrogen in your tea, cos you're acting awfully girly, Sam. Even for you."

Sam glowered at him, his chest heaving. "Tell me about the injury to my shoulder. Tell me what you found when you removed the scissors."

The request threw him, and Dean gaped, unable to figure why Sam even wanted to go back there. His brother had deliberately avoided learning the details about that night, about how badly injured he had been. And it had worked fine for Dean. Heal and move on. That's what they did. Well, it seemed that's what they used to do.

"My shoulder, Dean," Sam demanded, his tone impatient. "What did it look like?"

Dean flinched, forced to remember what he had worked so damned hard to forget._ Gory, grizzled minced meat. The flesh had been shredded, pulverized. And the blood. God, Sammy had bled so much._ Dean closed his eyes, forcing the images away. "Uh, it." He srubbed a hand across his face. "Why are you asking?"

"So I can damn well get an answer. Why the hell else would I ask?"

"Sam, what's going on?"

"Why can't you just answer the fucking question, Dean?"

"You're starting to worry me. Seriously, I think she put something in your tea."

Sam's expression fractured, the anger collapsing in on itself as pained devastation moved in its place. Sam wet his lips, his lower lip quivering. "It's in her, Dean," he said. "I sensed it. The same thing that's in Tara is in Beth."

"Okay, that's not particularly good, but we can deal with it."

"Did you see the wound on her face?"

"Yeah, so."

"That's how it got in. It sliced its way through her face. Through that deep wound."

Dean's gaze slipped to his brother's shoulder. "Is that what this is about? You think that thing is inside you." Sam tensed, his eyes wary, scared. Dean reached out to touch him, sighing as Sam once again slipped back. "There is no way that thing is in you, Sam."

"Dean."

"No, I know you. I'd know if there was something different about you. I'm your brother. I changed your nappies when you were a baby, wiped your nose when you were a snotty little toddler, beat off those bullies in—"

"I get the picture, Dean," Sam cut in, "but this thing doesn't change a person's personality."

"I think it does. You heard those women at the carnival, Beth was a half decent person before this happened. It changed her."

"PTSD," Sam said. He slumped in his seat and stared out the window at the darkness that closed in around them.

They were pulled off the side of the highway, still several miles from Perryton but Sam's disconcerting behavior had demanded that Dean pull the car to the side before they hit town. Dean watched his sibling, waiting for Sam to further explain his whacked out theory. And whacked out it was. Sam sometimes came up with some whoppers, but this one… this beat them all. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or punch his brother for being so stupid. So he did neither, and he waited.

"It's in me, Dean," Sam finally continued, his voice soft. "And you can believe otherwise, but all the evidence is there, man. All of it. It's just a matter of time before something happens." Sam seemed to draw in on himself at the last words, his tone self-defeating and most definitely hateful.

Dean's heart clenched and he reached out to touch his brother, his hand stilling as Sam flinched and reached for the door release. "Sam, don't."

"Don't touch me, Dean."

"Christ, Sammy."

"Don't."

Dean drew back, relaxing as Sam's hand lifted from the door. "Fine, but answer me this, what's your _spidey-sense_ telling you?"

"What?"

"Your _shining_. What's it telling you?"

"I don't know."

Dean sighed. "Sam, you've taken a few facts and drawn an implausible linkage between them. You and Beth were both injured, but that's where the similarity ends. She got away with a cut over her eye, you almost bled to death. What's that telling you, Einstein?"

"Dean, what the hell am I meant to believe. It drew us both in, attacked us and then let us walk away. It's obvious. I'm the same as Beth, as Tara. It's just a matter of time before this thing inside of me kills someone. Christ, Dean," he finished roughly, tears budding in his eyes.

"Beth walked away," Dean responded calmly, "you nearly didn't. She kept her eye, you almost lost your life. You blocked it and that made it work harder, but it didn't succeed. It's not in you. I would know. Trust me, I would know."

"Then why didn't it just kill me if it couldn't take me as a host?"

"Maybe it can't."

"That's just a theory, Dean."

"And so is your hair-brained idea that you're now _Edward Scissorhands_."

"Funny."

"Seriously, Sam. I'm your brother, I can read you and I know when you're off. You're odd, but you're not off. Trust me. One-helluva-big-brother is right. Always right."

Sam huffed, but Dean caught him risk a hopeful glance across the space that separated them. He left the conversation there, aware that pushing too far would jeopardize the ground he had just made. He took comfort from having injected some uncertainty into Sam's dark web of despair, he now just needed to find the proof to hammer his conviction home. And he would find it.

Dean eased the Impala back onto the highway and they returned to town in silence. He pulled into the _Steak Palace_. Sam glanced at him, and opened his mouth to voice a complaint. "We need to eat, Edward," Dean said.

"This is not a good idea."

"Hey, the food's not that bad."

"Things have changed."

"No, they haven't. You have not changed. You are my freakin' annoying little brother and you've come up with one hell of a bizarro theory, but other than that you're unchanged. Now move, before I have to kick your ass."

Dean got out, impatiently waiting for Sam to do the same. His brother finally extricated himself from the car, then dawdled near the rear of the Impala, his gaze wary. He scanned the car park and then the inside of the restaurant, no doubt judging the number and variety of potential casualties should his inner-evil want to come out and play.

Dean looked away, unable to be unaffected by the pain Sam was in but knowing that this was an easy fix. Dean knew Sam was wrong, there was nothing supernatural in him. Admittedly, his brother was a bit off kilter, still recovering from the injury that had almost taken his life, and frustratingly pig-headed… but he was entirely human. Dean knew that better than he knew himself. He could read Sam, his brother's sensitive, open nature helped, but it was the twenty-three years that Sammy had been in his life that gave the elder hunter the surety he needed. There was no way Sam could hide from him, and definitely no way that some freakin' knife wielding shadowy son of a bitch could use his brother without Dean recognizing the change. And if Sam were relying on his instinct rather than on raw analytical logic, he would know it too.

The mutt Sam had tried to befriend a week before distracted Dean's thoughts. The mangy canine slunk from behind a parked van and sauntered toward them. It had fattened up over the week, no doubt as a consequence of the leftovers that Sam had discretely dropped near the fence each time they left. He probably thought Dean had not noticed, but he had.

"Your girlfriend's here," Dean said as he shrugged toward the animal.

Sam glanced at him then looked over at the stray. His eyes brightened. He approached the dog, his manner gentle and warm. "Hey, have you been getting my presents," he murmured as he crouched down, allowing the animal to nuzzle up to him and lick his hand.

Dean watched, simultaneously disgusted and encouraged. Disgust won. He imagined the fleas bridging the gap between his brother and the dog. Their next port of call would be his beloved Chevy. He realized with a stab of alarm that he was going to have to fumigate his baby.

He shifted where he stood, glancing at the restaurant. He could smell the steak, but it did not warm his appetite. He sniffed, bringing one hand up to massage the tense muscles at the back of his neck. His hand stilled partway there. He sucked in a breath, his eyes darting back to Sam. "Son of a bitch," he exhaled. "That's it, Sam, the dog." He moved forward, scaring the animal as he grabbed Sam's arm.

"Dean, back the hell off."

"Beth's dogs ran away. Animals can sense the paranormal, they sensed it in Beth and it freaked them out. Remember what she said, that it was like the hounds of hell were on their tail. That scrawny bag of bones there is a goddamn paranormal Dog-o-meter, Sam," he finished off, grinning widely. He childishly tugged on Sam's jacket, then impetuously pulled his brother into a loose headlock. He knuckled Sam's hair, messing the already tousled strands into a mini afro.

Sam grunted, taking the punishment for a few seconds before he sliced his arm up, pinned Dean's wrist behind his back and shoved him hard against the side of the Impala. The breath whooshed from Dean's lungs. He grunted, arching back to break the hold. But Sam's body kept him firmly pinned against the side of the car, his brother's tall and well muscled form an impenetrable barrier.

Just as quickly as Sam had grabbed him, he was released. Dean grinned and spun around, leaning back against the Chevy as he proudly regarded his brother. "Yeah," he exclaimed, grinning widely as he rubbed at his wrist. "There's nothing wrong with those reflexes, little brother."

Sam stood several feet away, his breath fanning out into the rapidly cooling night air. He scanned Dean's face then looked past to the stray dog. Dean watched as Sam processed Dean's theory, he worked it through in his mind. Dean knew Sam would over-think it, analyze it, and search for holes in it. But there were none.

"Dog-o-meter," he repeated, almost giddily. He laughed, pushed his hand through his hair then pounded the roof of the car. "Son of a bitch," he exclaimed triumphantly. "Christ, I love that mutt."

Sam's lips twitched as he traded his attention between his brother and the dog. His shoulders relaxed as the moments passed.

Dean raised his hands. "C'mon, dude. I'm right. You know I'm right."

"Maybe."

"Maybe," Dean scoffed. "No maybes, Sammy. It's a freakin' rock solid certainty."

* * *

"Okay, thanks Missouri." Sam finished as he looked across the table at his brother. He thumbed the end call button and put the phone down. "Tara's the same," he informed, ignoring Dean's_ I told you so_ look"She took Tara around to a neighbor who has two dogs, they freaked out as soon as the kid entered the yard. She didn't even need to get close." 

"Dog-o-meter," Dean said.

"Can't you come up with a better name?"

"I like it."

"Yeah, well, your taste is extremely questionable."

"So how do you think you blocked it when it attacked you?"

"I don't know." Sam rubbed a hand across his jaw, scratching before loosely dropping it back to the table. He fidgeted with the phone then idly moved it around. "Beth couldn't block it so how could I?"

"Cos you're psychic boy-wonder," Dean said, pride evident in his tone.

Sam ignored that, reaching instead for the book Beth had given them. He flipped it open to page 102 and scanned the text. It contained a standard exorcism ritual. Latin transcript with key words that he recognized and a few that he did not. It had the potential to work, though they would not try it until they had thoroughly researched every word, every meaning, to ensure that it was safe. He could also see that it was composed of one step. The latter stage, after the spirit had been freed. Beth had been right, they needed a way to draw the entity out. Sam closed the book, pushing it away. He exhaled heavily, returning to idly pushing the phone around. "We need to exorcise Beth first," he started. "The entity within her is weaker than what is in Tara."

"You felt a difference?"

"The sensation was the same, but the intensity less. The thing must procreate by transferring a part of itself to a new host and because the transferal is fresh, the newly placed entity is weaker. Like a newborn, a child."

"And the chosen host has to be psychic, or have some form of extrasensory power in order to be suitable."

"Not just psychic. It didn't try for Missouri or Marcus, just Beth and I. Somehow we must be connected in some way."

"Not necessarily. You may just all share a similar spidey-sense thing. It drew you and Beth in, so maybe you and her operate on the same frequency and Missouri and Marcus don't."

"Possibly. I just wish we knew what set all this off. If fear was the ignition point for her connection with me, then what was it for Beth?"

Dean considered that, his lips pursed in silent contemplation. "Beth said that the parents had bought the kid a puppy, and it had been run over. The timing would have been about right, and that would constitute a pretty devastating event for a child."

"If she witnessed it."

"I think we can assume that she did."

"Yeah, okay. So that'd trigger an emotional response with the potential to electrify psychic pathways around the girl."

"Which would be enough to bring Beth in."

"Except that she didn't sense the danger like I did and she touched her. But I don't get why it took out the parents."

"Witnesses."

"You think it's that smart?"

"I hope not, but of the four people in that room, it took out Tara, it used Beth and it wasted the other two. Seems pretty smart to me. But what I can't figure out is how it got into Tara to start off with."

Sam rubbed a hand across his brow, kneading at his forehead. He shook his head, at a total loss to get an answer to that. He leaned one arm on the table, resting his head against his hand to prop it up. "We may never know. But we do know that we have to exorcise Beth," he said tiredly. "And this," he pushed the book toward Dean, "only takes care of the second part. First up we have to get the entity out of the host."

"And how do you propose to do that?" Dean asked carefully, his eyes scanning Sam's.

"The candle idea is a dud," Sam said lightly, noting that Dean did not smile. He let a moment draw past, then said, "I'll do it. I will draw it out. The incantation will then exorcise it." Sam saw Dean's gaze drop to his shoulder, and he hurried to reassure his brother. "If we set it up right, there will be no way it can hurt us. Remember it relies on weapons it gains from its surroundings. So we deny it access to anything. We choose the location and we make it safe."

Dean sat stiffly, his posture tense, his gaze locked with Sam's. Neither man spoke for several long minutes, then Dean said. "As much as I hate this, Sam. And I swear to you, I hate it. I don't see any other option, aside from walking away from this godforsaken mess and never looking back."

"We can't do that."

"We can."

"No," Sam said gently but firmly.

Dean hesitated, then said, "Okay, we can't. So we do this once and we do it right."

"Twice. We'll be doing it twice. Beth then Tara."

"Fine, smart-ass. Whatever. And," Dean wet his lips, his forehead knotting as he looked away from the table. He rubbed a hand across his face, seeming to have difficulty completing his thoughts.

"And?" Sam prompted softly.

"And," Dean continued, sweeping his gaze back to lock with Sam's. His stare was intense, dark and serious, the look his brother got only in the most dire of situations. Where decisions mattered, split seconds mattered… where life and death were but a hairs breath apart. "I will follow your lead. If you need me to stand back, I will. Regardless of the situation, of the risk to you. If you tell me to do it, I will. But only if you rely on your intuition and not on that twisted logic of yours. Jesus, Sammy, I told you that watching _Alien_ over and over would screw with your mind."

"I was six, dude."

"Too young to watch that shit."

"Dad let me."

"Yeah, well, he let you a lot of things you were too young to do."

"Yet it was okay for him to give me a .45?"

Dean shrugged, and Sam realized his brother had deliberately drawn focus away from his quiet announcement. From the admission that he would stand down from his big brother role if the need required it. "Thanks," he said softly, "I know that this is a big deal for you, and—"

"Sam," Dean warned.

Sam raised his eyebrows and huffed. "Okay, jerk" he finally said.

"Bitch."

* * *

"I can't believe you talked me into that," Dean groused as he thumbed over his shoulder to the Chevy. It sparkled in the early morning sunlight, gleaming and proud. It made what now sat in the back seat even more upsetting. He shifted his gaze to the man responsible for his current distress. "That is a classic car, Sam. Do you understand what that even means? It's not one of those cheap plastic imported heaps that shit all over the highway. It has class. It demands respect." 

"Shut up, Dean."

"You're cleaning it, bitch," he snarled as he landed a solid thwack to the back of his brother's head. His fingers tingled and he knew that had to have hurt. He grinned and waited for the reaction.

Sam whirled and predictably retaliated. Dean easily ducked out of the way, leering evilly at his annoyed sibling. "Hah," he crowed, lightly flicking his hand at Sam's shoulder. "It's the guilt, man. It's slowing you down."

"No, you jerk," Sam breathed, "you're pissing me off." Sam deftly snagged his brother's wrist, twisting and flexing the joint into an unnatural angle as he leaned in close, using his superior height over the older man.

"Uh," Dean grunted as Sam exerted just enough pressure to bring pain, but not enough to cause harm. Dean laughed softly, wincing as Sam exerted just a tiny bit more pressure. His brother's closeness did not intimidate him. Dean knew his brother would never deliberately hurt him, and Sam was in full control of his faculties, of his strength. They had played this particular game, in its various forms, their entire life. Dean also knew a move or two that would instantly reverse the situation, but he did not exercise them. He let his brother think he had control, think he had cornered his big brother. Sam needed this. He needed the confidence boost. And he needed something else…. "Dude," Dean griped lightly, "you need breath mints."

Sam huffed, his breath warm against Dean's face. "Enough with the car, already. It is fine. I'll vacuum it. Wash it. Hell, I'll freakin' lick it clean if that will shut you the hell up."

"Aw, gross."

Sam's eyes sparkled, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. He released Dean's wrist and moved back. "Then quit jerking around."

Dean rubbed at his wrist as he scanned sunlit street and the self-storage complex. "Think she'll come?"

"I said for her to be here at nine o'clock. And I said it nicely, so yeah, I think she'll come," Sam responded, checking his watch before walking to the rear of the Chevy.

"What'd you say to her?" Dean asked as he joined his brother. He made no attempt to help and Sam glowered at him.

"I told her that we'd found a guy who had experienced the same thing that she had. I suggested that it may help if she met him."

"And she bought that?"

"Well, no, not exactly. She took some talking around. But I think she felt bad about what happened the other day."

"Pushing you down the steps and almost killing you?"

"Well, that's a particularly melodramatic version of events, but yeah."

"And what about asking her to come to a self-storage complex. That didn't bother her?"

"She doesn't know that's what it is."

"She will when she pulls in, Sam."

"Then we'll wait out front. It doesn't look so bad from the street."

"No," Dean agreed, "nothing that a can of kero and a match wouldn't fix."

Sam huffed as he shoved a bag in Dean's hands. "Make yourself useful."

"Am useful."

"Yeah. Not."

Dean smirked, following his brother as they wound their way into the complex, unlocked the rented unit and quickly moved inside.

"It looks smaller than it did yesterday," Sam noted as he dropped the bag. He moved to the wall and flattened his palm against it, testing the surface as he slowly moved along.

"Ten foot by fifteen foot. It's the only one they had available and this town isn't exactly busting out all over with these things. Anyway, the smaller the better," Dean said, frowning as he watched his brother. "Sam, we've already done that."

"No harm in doing it again."

"We haven't allowed time."

"Won't take long."

Dean shook his head then dropped to one knee as he foraged around in the bags. He pulled out a portable battery operated lantern which he held up. "Make yourself useful and hook this up."

"When I've finished here."

"No, now, dude." Dean waved the lamp toward his sibling, grunting as Sam ignored him. He pushed to his feet and set the lamp up himself. Frustration and concern gnawed at him as Sam continued to methodically examine every square inch of the drywall box they had chosen for the ritual. "You getting Alzheimers?" Dean eventually bit out. "We did this yesterday, remember. This place is as safe as it's ever going to get. No sharp edges, nothing loose, nothing that could be used to impale us."

"I know."

"Then what are you doing?"

Sam shrugged, his shoulders tense, his expression fixed. He had reached the open doorway and there he hesitated, lightly running his fingers over the metal. He frowned as he found something, his lips drawn together in a tight line. Whatever it was must have passed his pedantic inspection because he eventually continued on.

"Dude, enough already," Dean finally said. He joined his brother and pulled the younger boy around to face him. "What's going on, Sam. What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit. Spill."

Sam raised his hands, then fumbled with Dean's jacket, pulling and prodding at the buttons. Dean itched to slap him away, but the look on his brother's face stopped him. "Sam?" he pressed gently, holding his breath as Sam's world-weary gaze drew up and met his.

"Are you nervous?" Sam asked.

"No," Dean lied. He raised his eyebrows as Sam cocked his head to the side, his expression searching. "This'll be a piece of cake. C'mon, we've spent two days haggling over this, working through every possible scenario. We've gone over this godforsaken box with a fine tooth comb. If that thing gets the drop on either one of us, there's nothing here that can hurt us." He clasped his brother's upper arms, squeezing gently. "Nothing is going to go wrong. But, if you're getting those spidey-sense tingles, we can still walk away from this."

"We can't, Dean."

"We can and we will. You just have to say the word."

"Don't put this all on me."

"I'm not, but this is your call. I will back you one hundred percent whichever way you go, but this is your decision to make, Sam. I can't make it for you."

"What happened to us being a team?"

"We are, but you're the lead on this job. You've got the whole _shining_ thing happening, I haven't. It's your call."

He clasped the nape of Sam's neck and gently squeezed, then returned to the bag. He worked deliberately, his muscles tense and a deep hope in him that Sam would back down. As much as it would tear him apart to turn his back on Tara, and on Beth, this was one job that he was willing to risk his sanity for. But it was not his decision to make. It never had been.

"We'll do it."

Dean stilled, then nodded. He kept his back to his brother. "Then let's get set up. Beth will be here soon."

* * *

"You tricked me into coming here," Beth said, her eyes dark with anger. 

"Yes," Sam answered honestly. He glanced back at Dean as the older boy locked the door. The sunlit slid away and Sam's eyes slowly adjusted to the more muted light provided by the battery operated lanterns.

Beth took a step back, her attention darting between the two men. "Why are you doing this?"

Sam raised his hands and gestured to Dean to stay back. "Beth, listen to me. The entity that is in Tara, is in you as well. The vision that you had was its way of drawing you in. It wanted to procreate and you were a suitable host."

Beth took another step back. "Let me go and I will not tell a soul. You pair can get out of town."

"I can sense it. I know it's in you. It infiltrated your system through that wound in your face. Dean and I can kill it. Will you let us?"

The woman considered that, her gaze wary and sharp. "I would know if that had happened."

"No. You wouldn't. Tara didn't, not until it was too late and she witnessed the death of her parents. It will be the same for you. We can stop it."

"If it's in me then it's in you too. You were attacked. Your shoulder."

"It's not in me. It tried, but it wasn't successful."

"How do you know?"

"A little dog told me." Sam smiled then and allowed his voice to soften. "Your dogs ran away, Beth. They sensed it in you. Once this is over, you can get them back." It was the woman's weak point and she visibly sagged. Sam gave her a moment, then cautiously approached. "I need to touch you to free it, then we'll read the ritual and it will be over. I'll protect you, I promise."

"The ritual won't work."

"It will. We've refined it. It will work."

"What if it doesn't?"

"It will. You need to trust me."

Beth glanced toward Dean, then back to Sam. "I trust you." _But not Dean._ Sam prickled, but did not allow a visible reaction to show. "Do you have anything that could be used as a weapon?"

"What?"

"Keys, phone, anything sharp. Once the entity is released, it will search for a weapon and it will do it so fast that we won't have a chance to block it."

Beth fumbled in her pockets, her hands shaking. "Only my phone and car keys."

"Put them on the floor."

She bent down and placed the items before her. Sam collected them and took them to Dean. The older man had taken cover in the corner, behind a thick industrial strength Plexiglass shield that they had firmly adhered and wedged in place. He unlatched the heavy bolt that held the screen in place, and moved it to the side in order to take the items. Dean put them behind him, out of sight, then clutched at Sam's wrist. "You sure about this?" he whispered, "I mean, really sure." He licked his lips and the hold he had on Sam's wrist was tight.

"Yeah. I am."

Something close to pain crossed the older hunter's face, and he nodded. He gently squeezed Sam's wrist, trailing his fingers down until the contact broke.

"You know what to do."

"I won't come out, Sam. Not until it's over."

"Regardless of what happens – of what you see?"

Visible pain twisted across Dean's features, but he nodded.

"It'll be okay, Dean. I will be okay." Sam turned his back and returned to Beth. Without looking back at his brother, he reached out. The tickle of electrical sensation was immediate, and a second later his fingers touched Beth's skin. That was all it took.

**

* * *

End Chapter Nine**


	10. Chapter 10

**ENTITY (Chapter Ten)**

Sam had not counted on the entity having the ability to forcibly propel a body. They had thought it could only manipulate objects, which had necessitated a restricted, controlled environment. The small storage unit met that purpose, and now saved Sam from serious injury as the entity demonstrated an ability to adapt to its surroundings. Sam pondered the potential for supernatural evolution as he slid to the floor of the small storage unit, the breath knocked out of him from his brief flight across the room.

Winded, Sam offered no defense against the entity's follow up assault. Raw air seethed cold against his face then struck, hard. The blow whipped his head to the side and the young hunter saw compacted stars against a black canvas. Almost beautiful if it weren't for the rush of blood against his ears and the burst of pain through his cheek and jaw. It hit like a champion prizefighter, but without the fair playing rules or the advantage of warning. As the dizzied confusion cleared, anger shifted into place, and he pushed to his feet. He scanned, spotting the entity almost immediately. Hovering, the black vapor seemed almost to be composing itself, or choosing its next target. It shimmered, poised, shadowy and dense. Wispy tendrils leaked from the edges of the mass like ethereal fingers. Probing, calculating its next move. Claustrophobic silence weighted the excruciating standoff – broken only by Sam's own furious breathing. Not even the sound of Dean's Latin verse broke the stunning calm.

Sam jerked his attention to his brother, his breath frozen, his heart stalled. Dean had stopped reciting. Had he finished? Terror prickled his skin as Sam wordlessly sought confirmation from his sibling. Their eyes met and Dean ran his tongue across his lips, dropped his head and recommenced reading. Sam stared, dumbstruck, then cursed his brother before risking a glance at Beth. The woman cowered in the corner, her arms hugged around her knees and head down. She was an unlikely target – the host. The entity needed something to go back to, it would be unwilling to compromise its safe haven.

However, Sam it seemed was fair game. Not yet old enough to procreate, the entity clearly saw Sam as a threat rather than a potential incubator for its malevolent offspring. That knowledge provided some comfort but it did not erase Sam's growing anger. Homicidal shadows pissed him off and being beaten up by one made his rage almost irrational. As he waited, back pressed against the wall, for the smoky vapor's next move, Sam trembled with a murderous need to exact some pent-up revenge. He would give anything for the shotgun, even to have the momentary satisfaction of blasting the shit out of the bastard. It would be pointless and immediately regretted, but irrationality made him crave for it anyway.

The entity moved. Sam tracked it, awed by the graceful ease with which it chewed up the air. An acrid, burned scent seared in its wake, as though it consumed oxygen and expelled some bitter byproduct as waste. It jerked and twitched, then struck the Plexiglass shield behind which Dean sheltered. The elder hunter sprang back within his cramped confines, a fierce expletive chopping through the Latin verse. The heavy duty plastic warped. Sam growled and took a step forward, his eyes widening as the dark vapor twisted in mid air then funneled back toward him.

Sam tensed in anticipation of pain, but before it reached him, the vapor distorted in on itself with an airless shriek. The sudden shift shocked Sam into gathering his wits and scuttling side-wards. He cinched into the corner as dark light exploded, sliced up and splintered across the ceiling. A loud pop accentuated the entity's cataclysmic departure. Sam panted hard, his wide eyes locked on the smoke charred ceiling. Silence descended and only his own harsh breathing scarred the quietness. It was almost anticlimactic, and neither he nor his brother moved for several long minutes.

"Shit," Dean eventually said.

"Fuck," he offered in response and Dean's eyebrows shot up. Sam grunted as he stood. He steadied himself against the wall and gently tested his jaw. Bruised, but not broken. It did not ease his anger any.

Dean extricated himself from his shelter and joined Sam. "You good?"

"Peachy."

"Okay," Dean said warily.

Sam shrugged, his pulse throbbing with unused adrenaline and undirected anger. "I hate shadows. I fucking hate them. I so wanted to blast the fucker." He fisted his hands, his body practically vibrating.

"Sam, calm down." Dean grabbed his biceps and gently pushed Sam back against the wall. "This is about the Daeva's," he said carefully.

Sam shook his head and tensed to pull away. Dean's grip tightened. "We'll fix this. All of it. Dad, Mom, Jessica… all of it. I promise."

"I just want rock-salt to work on everything," he said, the anger deflating. "Shadows… I hate them."

"Yeah, so do I, but this isn't a Daeva. This is simpler—"

"Don't say easier, Dean."

"I wasn't going to. But this has nothing to do with us. It's just another job, Sam. It's not personal. We can call it quits right here. You don't have to do this again. It can end right now."

"We have to help Tara."

"And we will, but not like this. We'll figure something else out, do more research, find another way. You don't have to be that thing's punching bag, Sam. You've been through enough."

Sam looked away, his gaze hooded. "What if there is no other way?"

Dean squeezed his arms. "There is. And we'll find it. We've got time. That thing in Tara is not going anywhere."

* * *

Dean watched his brother as Sam gradually calmed down and reverted back to being himself… not an inferior Dean-clone. Being beaten up by a dark shadow brought out the worst in the youngest Winchester, made him do horribly poor imitations of his classier and definitely more handsome sibling. Though imitation was the highest form of flattery, Dean was not prepared to deal with a psyched up, trigger happy, shadow slaying Sam. Dean may have conceded to wearing a looser fitting big brother outfit, but he was not about to give up the darkly dangerous older brother routine. There were some things that remained sacred. Anyway, he did not swear anywhere near that much. Did he? 

Frowning, Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and snagged the Chevy's keys from his jean's pocket. He dangled them, nodding at Sam as the younger man glanced over. Sam hesitated, checked Beth then stood and accepted them. "Stay with her, she's still a bit shaky."

"If that thing has done anything in my car, Sam."

"I said I'd clean it."

"You're not licking it clean."

"How about I piss on it. Would that be better?"

Dean resisted the urge to thump his brother. He settled on a murderous glare instead, incensed when Sam laughed and ducked out of the storage unit.

"Is it over?" Beth asked after Sam had been gone a few minutes.

"Yeah," Dean said. He crouched down before the shaken woman. "You doing okay?"

"Yes. No. Not every day that you see that. I mean," she looked at him strangely, then added, "for me. It's not every day. Where's Sam gone?"

"He'll be back in a minute."

"I should get up."

"Don't if you're feeling shaky."

"No." Beth fidgeted, her hands fluttering before she accepted Dean's offered hand. He pulled her up, then steadied her. "Thanks," she murmured. "Misjudged you. Sorry."

"We got off to a bit of a rocky start."

She smiled weakly. "Are you sure it's over?"

"Yes."

"How do you know all of this?" She regarded him carefully, then shook her head. "Don't answer. I don't need to know."

"It's complicated."

"Isn't everything?"

Dean nodded, smiling. "Yeah, it is."

"Should I offer you something? Money?"

"No."

"Why?"

Dean looked to the door, he could hear Sam returning. "It's not necessary."

"What about a meal?"

"Maybe. Come outside. Sam has something for you."

"What is it?" She sounded nervous.

Dean smiled warmly, waiting until the uncertainty faded from her eyes. "It's furry, has really bad breath and Sam thinks that you'll like it. Personally. Not so sure."

"Tango and Boxer?"

"You're getting warm," Dean said. He ushered Beth to the door and then helped her outside. Sam was waiting for them, the _Steak Palace_ mutt sitting beside him. "The ribbon looks bad, Sam," Dean informed dryly as he took in the recently bathed, groomed and flea-rinsed hound.

"No it doesn't," Sam said as he crouched beside the dog. He teased at the ribbon, flattening the pink silk against the dark brown and gold flecked dog hair.

Dean sighed and glanced at Beth who stood silently beside him. The woman made no effort to go to the wet nosed, woe eyed pooch. In fact, she seemed almost dumbstruck. This was not going as well as Sam had said it would. Dog nuts love dogs, the younger boy had said as he had hit Dean with his most baleful puppy-dog eyes. But, despite the little brother con-job, Dean had not gone down without a fight. Agreeing to have a flea-bag hound in the Impala was worth making Sam beg and cajole and promise to do the laundry for a month, wash the Impala – by hand – every week for three months, and never, ever, to let the car run out of gas again.

But now it was all going to shit and it seemed that Sam knew it. The younger man shifted, uncertainty clouding his features. He averted his gaze from Dean and scratched behind the dog's ears. The mutt leaned in and Dean had an awful sick feeling that if Beth didn't take the thing, it would be back in the Impala – permanently. The most awful third wheel he could possibly imagine. The Winchester brothers and their shit-eating side-kick. Shit-eating in the completely literal sense.

"She's lovely," Beth said flatly.

Dean scratched at his head. This was going downhill fast. He swiped the back of his brother's head as he moved past. Sam grunted and muttered but Dean deliberately ignored him. He returned to the Impala. Inspected the car, removed several dog hairs and turned his nose up at the slightly perfumed, doggy scent that lingered at the back seat. Snorting with disgust, he brushed his hand across the leather and silently cursed his soft hearted brother. "Dog nuts love dogs, my ass."

The shrill ring of his cell phone broke his thoughts. He tracked the sound to the glove compartment, flipped it open and snagged the phone just as it switched to voicemail. Missed call. No caller ID.

Sighing, he pocketed the phone and wove his way back through the storage complex. He noticed with some hope that the situation had improved in his absence. Beth now crouched beside the dog while Sam stood. The relief faded as he took in the distracted, pained expression on the younger boy's face. "You okay?" Dean asked, narrowing his gaze as he moved in closer.

"Yeah," Sam said as he acknowledged Dean's return. He briefly kneaded at his forehead then drew in a deep breath. "That thing had a mean right hook."

"Not bad for something with no hands," Dean said lightly but he continued to watch Sam. When satisfied that his brother was not about to keel over, he turned his attention to the woman. Beth knelt beside the dog, her fingers knotted in its long fur, and her face wet with tears. She sobbed and Dean struggled to comprehend what that meant. He turned back to Sam for an explanation.

"Dog nuts love dogs," Sam said softly, his tone vaguely self-satisfied.

"So we won't be wasting a bullet then," Dean responded dryly. He arched an eyebrow at Sam's chastising look, then retrieved his cell as the voicemail tone came through. He dialed through, retrieved the message and listened. His mouth went dry and his eyes darted to Sam as he recognized the caller, the chipped, frantic message and the dull silence that followed. "Shit," he breathed. Sam watched expectantly. "It's Missouri," Dean said. "She's got trouble."

Sam paled and his adam's apple bobbed. "The entity in Tara?"

"Yeah. We've got to go. Now."

* * *

"Dammit, Dean, we should have known that," Sam said after he ended the call to Missouri. He kneaded at his forehead, at the throbbing ache through his mind. It had intensified since learning of Missouri's broken message. And had worsened as the hours passed and contact could not be reestablished with the aging psychic. Finally reaching her had not eased the pain, and Sam knew that it was neither the blows to his face nor the fear for Missouri that had caused it. 

"How the hell could we have known that exorcising Beth would alert Tara's freaky pal?" Dean said bitterly. "We figured that it relied on solid connections between hosts – telepathy and touch. Did Tara connect telepathically?"

"No, Missouri said the kid was fine up until three hours ago. Up until we splattered that thing across the storage unit's ceiling. It had no clue what we were going to do until we did it. But now it does." Sam quit massaging at his temple and exhaled heavily. Dean glanced at him but remained silent. Sam continued, "It must retain a connection. Maybe the thing in Beth wasn't its kid, maybe it was a part of it. Maybe it's spreading rather than procreating."

"Yeah, maybe." Dean's fingers tightened on the wheel. "How's Missouri?"

"She's okay," Sam said. "Shaken up, but unharmed." Silence fell between them and he had to work saliva into his mouth before he could add the next part. "Marcus was there too, Dean." The elder hunter looked across and Sam did not need to finish.

"Shit."

"Missouri thinks it ran out of energy before it could turn on her. But it's got some level of control over Tara that it never had before. The kid kept Missouri hostage for the past three hours, Dean. Held a knife on her. Then five minutes ago she ordered Missouri into a cupboard, shoved a chair against it and left the house. Missouri broke out but she can't find the kid. She's disappeared."

"That's what's been happening for the past three hours. Why we couldn't get a hold of her?"

Sam swallowed hard and nodded. He squinted at the landscape as it flashed past. Though Dean was speeding, the slowly moving time grated painfully through Sam. His foot tapped against the floorboard, and he tugged at his lower lip. "You know we have to find Tara and do the exorcism. We can't research. We can't wait."

"I know."

"It knows we're coming, Dean. And it wants us to."

"Yeah, I figured that." Dean glanced at him. "How are you holding up?"

"Okay."

"There's pain pills in the glove compartment."

"No, I'm good. Just drive."

Dean acknowledged that, his grip tight on the steering wheel. He glanced in the rearview mirror, as though checking that there was not something coming up behind them. "So, how do you want to play this?"

Sam fidgeted, rubbing his palms across his thighs. He looked out the window at the featureless landscape, tension thrumming against his fingertips, making his heart beat faster. "Same as we did with Beth. We find Tara, take her someplace safe and we exorcise her."

"Okay, I'd be on board with that. So how do you think it got out of Tara anyway?"

"When we exorcised Beth, the shock of losing a part of it must have prompted a short burst of energy. Short lived, but not short lived enough." Sam shifted in his seat, his hands drawn into tight fists. He pursed his lips and regulated his breathing as his own emotion ramped up the pain through his skull. He deliberately calmed his body, relaxing and easing the tension. The pain edged back, but the dull ache remained. Deliberate and methodical, in time with his own heartbeat. The connection had been set, the lure primed. Now that the entity had him, it was not going to let him go a second time.

* * *

Dean steered the Chevy deeper into the quiet industrial estate, past shuttered warehouses and empty manufacturing sheds. He relied on Sam to guide him. 

"Next left," the younger boy offered tiredly.

Dean shot his brother a worried glance, then steered the car into the wide avenue. Rows of warehouses lined the street, all of them hollowed and dark as shadows stretched from the late afternoon sunlight. He hazarded a guess that the buildings were abandoned.

"There, that one."

"That two storey place with the huge glass windows."

"Yeah."

"Nice. Well, one things for sure, we're not exorcising the bitch here."

Sam smiled, though he looked tired. Exhausted actually. But he was not bleeding and Dean saw that as a good thing. "You stay here while I get her."

"No. I'll come. I'm not sure where she is, not exactly."

Dean's gaze narrowed then he nodded. "Okay, then let's grab her and bust this place."

They worked their way into the building, Dean keeping Sam behind him. The unlocked doorway opened into a large expanse of open space that constituted the ground floor level. Debris littered the floor, a blend of broken and discarded construction material. An abandoned warehouse conversion project, Dean mused. He glanced back at Sam and found the younger boy looking up. "Upstairs?" he whispered in question.

Sam nodded, then moved in close as Dean led the way to the stairs, then commenced ascending. Their footsteps hushed through the quiet. The stairs curved into a landing, then split back on itself as it went higher. Sam wavered at the landing and Dean caught him just as he was about to fall. The younger man leaned into him, his breathing fast. Dean steadied his brother and waited for him to raise his head.

"It knows I'm here," Sam said.

"Yeah, I figured as much. Go back to the car, take the back-seat, she'll have less change of reaching you from there. I'll grab her and be down in a minute."

"I'm okay."

"Sam, she could make a lunge for you."

"I need to come."

Dean hesitated as Sam moved back, his fingers white knuckled on the railing, but otherwise he seemed to have regained his equilibrium. He watched him a moment longer, then turned and continued up the stairs. He hesitated at the first floor door and glanced back at Sam. Sam shook his head and gestured to continue to the next level. Dean frowned, unease tickling the hairs on the back of his neck. He continued up but paused on the next landing between the first and second floors. He turned to his brother. "Sam, go back to the car."

"No."

"Sam."

"No, Dean."

Dean exhaled heavily, disturbed by the bitter determination in the younger man's eyes. He could not tell whether it was just the pain or something else that was making Sam so recalcitrant. Regardless, it was clear that Dean would not win this argument and even trying would just waste time and cause Sam further pain. All Marcus had taught the younger man seemed to have gone to shit, and Dean knew that it was not the training but rather the entity. Killing its kid, or part of it, or whatever the hell it had been, had seriously pissed it off. They had to get the girl and end this. Fast.

They reached the door to the second level and Dean held Sam back as he rested his fingers on the handle. He nodded once, then pushed it down and drew the door open. They stepped into a small foyer, the open expanse of the second level just beyond. Dean slowly moved forward, one arm extended out to keep Sam behind him. He sighted Tara against one wall, her knees drawn up and head down. She stared fixedly at a patch on the floor before her. Unseeing and unmoving. She had Bruno, the toy stuffed dog with her, clutched against her small body with one thin arm.

Dean deliberately looked away, unable to align the crushing responsibility for the innocence before him with the aching responsibility of keeping Sam safe. So he did what he did best: avoidance. He scanned the warehouse, his heart-rate picking up as he took in the three panel high, floor to ceiling windows filled the wall opposite where he and Sam presently stood.

Sam huffed and nudged up behind him. "Exposed beams," he said, lazily lifting one hand. "That'd hurt."

Dean reluctantly looked up. "Yeah," he agreed, as he took in the rusting steel beams that crisscrossed the room's width. As the upper floor of the two storey building, no effort had been made to enclose the ceiling. It was butt ugly – and since learning that the entity could physically propel a body with force, it was lethal. He swept his gaze back down and across the solid brick walls that formed two sides of the room. Very little debris littered this floor of the building, but where there was less potential for impalement, it made up for it in expanse and structure. Facing off with the entity in that room would result in certain death – a bloody one at that. He glanced at his brother. "Stay here, I'll get her."

Dean did not bother with pleasantries, though he was gentle. He firmly grabbed the child and carried her toward the door. She stiffened in his embrace and Dean adjusted the slight girl against his chest so he could see her face. Open eyes stared blankly. It was damned unnerving. The thing had control of her, yet it made no attempt to have her break free. As he looked across to Sam, he understood why. His brother had fallen to his knees, his head in his hands. He made no sound, but the crippling rigidity of his body spoke volumes. Dean weighed his options, the choice made for him as Sam crumpled to the floor. He put the girl down and hurried to Sam. He worked quickly to bring his brother to his feet then wound his arm around the younger man to keep him there.

"Can you block it?" he asked, his tone desperate. It was an asshole of a question. One that Sam did not bother answering. If Sam could block it, he would. "We're leaving," he said as he hooked a glance back at the girl. She stood watching, her vacant eyes staring at them… at Sam.

"I can't," Sam said softly.

"You can, Sam. You just have to work harder."

"I can't."

"You can, dammit." He pulled Sam forward, giving him no choice but to walk or be dragged. Sam dug his heels in at the head of the stairs to the lower level.

"It wants me, Dean. But if I can't have me, then it will cut its losses. And it can. It can kill me."

"Marcus taught you to block. Are you telling me that was a waste of time? Everything we've been through. Everything! It was all for nothing?"

"No." Sam pulled away, his breathing harsh. He squinted and rubbed at his face. "It wasn't for nothing. We can still end this, Dean. But it has to be here."

Dean's hands shook and he fisted them at his side. "Fine, but not in there. We'll find somewhere else in this shit hole, but it's not happening in there."

Sam's gaze shifted to the side. "Try to take Tara from that room and it will kill me instantly."

"What?"

"It has to be in there or not at all."

"You're telling me that you are going to willingly face off against that thing in there?" Dean hooked a thumb over his shoulder, his hand shaking. Sam shrugged, his expression miserably tortured.

"No way, Sam. No fucking way. That is a death trap. You would not last a minute in there with that thing. Look what that freaky bastard in Perryton did to you, and it only had a 150 foot square box to work in. That bitch has at least two thousand square feet, plate glass windows, steel beams, brick walls. And it's stronger."

"Dean."

"No!" Dean fiercely cut his brother off. He vibrated with the need to make this right. To protect Sam, to do what was his God-given role, and his alone. And he suddenly knew how. It was what he should have done from the very start. "You know what," he announced tightly, "This ends now, Sammy. The fucking old fashioned way." In one fluid action, Dean withdrew the Glock from the waistband of his jeans. He barely had it out before Sam's eyes widened, and in a move that stunned the older boy, Sam grabbed his arm, knocked the gun from his grasp and slammed him hard against the wall. Stunned by his brother's violent strength, Dean made no effort to resist. "Is this you or it?" he rasped. "Has it got to you?"

Tears budded in Sam's eyes and he wrenched away, staggering before dropping to his knees. He snagged the fallen weapon. Dean's breath froze in his throat. "Sam," he said cautiously.

"You're not killing her."

Sam's voice sounded strangely off and the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stood on end. "Sammy, give me the gun."

Sam fingered the weapon, his eyes downcast. He flicked it off safety. Dean reached out just as Sam raised the weapon and fired. The stunning discharge shocked the elder hunter and he recoiled with each sharp burst. The bullets slammed into the far brick wall. When the round was exhausted, Sam allowed the weapon to drop to the floor with a loud clatter.

"I don't want to die," Sam said softly. "But I will not be responsible for the death of your humanity either. So we do this my way." He looked up, his pain-filled gaze steady. "You promised you would follow my lead. Now more than ever I need you to do that. Can you?"

Dean swallowed hard. "Sam, please."

"There is only one way this can end. Exorcism. Like Beth."

"It will kill you."

Sam averted his gaze, pushed to his feet and wiped the sleeve of his jacket under his nose. It came away speckled with blood. Sam impassively considered it then lowered his arm. "We don't have much time. We have to build you a shelter." He raised one hand, stopping Dean from speaking. "You will read the incantation while I hold it off."

"Sam, no."

"It won't kill me outright. It wants me and it will try to take me. That's your chance to exorcise it. You read fast. And no stopping halfway through like last time."

"It's suicide."

"No. Even suicide is a choice, Dean. I have no choice."

Dean's gaze slid to the gun. There was more ammo in the car, he could knock Sam out, get it and finish the kid.

"No." Sam's firm voice cut through his thoughts. "I will choose death before I allow you to kill Tara."

"It's not your choice."

"Yes it is. This is my playing field. My freaky spidey-senses. My shining. My rules. You made me a promise, Dean."

"I have no problem breaking it if it keeps you alive."

"I could not live with that Dean, and neither could you. And," he paused, "we screwed up in Perryton because we thought we knew it all. What if killing Tara unleashes the fucker, gives it unimaginable power? We'll both die with the responsibility of countless deaths on our hands. I don't choose that, Dean. Don't you dare make me."

Dean swallowed hard. He averted his gaze, his vision swimming. "It's unlikely to be released, Sam," he said, his voice small.

"More unlikely than exorcising Beth only to have momma bear in there lash out and kill Marcus? There are no certainties here. But there are facts. The exorcism ritual will kill it. That is a proven fact."

"What if there's a bigger momma bear, and killing this thing unleashes it?"

"I would know if there was something else, Dean. There's not. This is the only one. And we're going to kill it. Here."

Dean shook his head, he no longer trusted himself to speak. Sam breathed heavily and Dean could practically sense the raw energy emanating from the younger man. He was running on adrenaline only. Would it be enough to sustain him while Dean completed the reading of the ritual? Just how fast could he speed-read the lines anyway? Fast enough to save his brother's life?

"We can do this, Dean," Sam said, and he sounded like a washed up baseball coach trying to urge on his crippled, defeated team.

Dean flinched as Sam touched him. He had not even realized his brother had moved. He looked up, saw the determination and courage in his little brother's eyes and he felt a flicker of hope – and a numbing wave of despair.

"We can do this," Sam repeated, and he sounded less washed up, more sure. "It will be alright. I promise."

Dean trusted his brother and he believed in him, but this…. As Sam moved away, Dean caught his wrist, unable to speak when Sam looked at him, his pain-glazed eyes questioning. The control Sam had over the pain, over the entity, was solid but wearing. Dean had seen his brother tire under the assault, and now he was bleeding. Untended, it would get worse. It wasn't that Marcus' teachings were flawed, or Sam had messed up and forgotten the lessons… it was the entity. Exorcising its little buddy had backed it into a corner, and Dean knew Sam was right. It was desperate to find a replacement host and what better than the one that had gotten away. It would not kill Sam outright. But it would seriously mess him up before it realized the futility of its efforts. That huge empty room with its pretty glass windows, bare brick walls and steel girded ceiling would be Sam's own torture chamber. And Dean would witness it all.

He grasped Sam's wrist tighter, then squeezed once and let go. Their eyes locked, but neither spoke. There were no words for what they would face, and no words for what it might bring. Sam looked away first, his whispered, "We've got work to do," breaking the tentative connection and Dean felt the loss like a barbed arrow through his heart.

**End Chapter Ten**


	11. Chapter 11

**ENTITY (Chapter Eleven)**

**Warning: ** This chapter contains significant violence.

From Chapter Ten:

_Dean trusted his brother and he believed in him, but this…. As Sam moved away, Dean caught his wrist, unable to speak when Sam looked at him, his pain-glazed eyes questioning. The control Sam had over the pain, over the entity, was solid but wearing. Dean had seen his brother tire under the assault, and now he was bleeding. Untended, it would get worse. It wasn't that Marcus' teachings were flawed, or Sam had messed up and forgotten the lessons… it was the entity. Exorcising its little buddy had backed it into a corner, and Dean knew Sam was right. It was desperate to find a replacement host and what better than the one that had gotten away. It would not kill Sam outright. But it would seriously mess him up before it realized the futility of its efforts. That huge empty room with its pretty glass windows, bare brick walls and steel girded ceiling would be Sam's own torture chamber. And Dean would witness it all._

_He grasped Sam's wrist tighter, then squeezed once and let go. Their eyes locked, but neither spoke. There were no words for what they would face, and no words for what it might bring. Sam looked away first, his whispered, "We've got work to do," breaking the tentative connection and Dean felt the loss like a barbed arrow through his heart._

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Eleven**

"Sam, don't," Dean said as he gently pushed his brother back with one hand. "I've got this. You go and sit down."

"I can help."

"Yes, you can, but you need to save your strength. Go and sit down." He gestured toward the opposite side of the small second level foyer within which they now worked. Sam hesitated, clearing intending to argue, so Dean hardened his gaze and his tone. "Now Sam."

The younger boy's lips drew into a thin line and he hunched his shoulders. He wiped at the thin trail of blood that hugged his upper lip, then turned and returned to the far wall. He sat down, his back against the wall, his long legs extended out before him. He crossed them at the ankles and hugged his arms around his stomach. He watched Dean, his blue-green eyes haunted.

"Make sure the screws go into the studs, Dean."

"I know."

"The screen won't hold otherwise."

"I know."

"You need to silicone the lip of the lid. Do that once you're inside, so the seal holds. And clean the lip first, it'll have residue from last time."

"I know." Dean averted his gaze and continued working. The Plexiglass screen that had saved Dean from injury during the exorcism of Beth would serve to protect him from Tara. The basic set-up would remain unchanged, the tethering method as it had been before. But stronger. Sam had demanded that. Extra wall fixings, the screws more solid, a line of adhesive at the base. And fixings to the floor. Dean had agreed, but even if he had not, the argument would have been impossible to win. Dean worked quickly, the technique practiced. Still, tension knotted his shoulders and unsteadied his hands. Several times he slipped and skinned the knuckles of his fingers. He swore under his breath.

"What else is downstairs?" Sam asked after several minutes.

"Construction material mostly. Looks like the renovators moved out in a hurry. There's a few things we can use."

Sam fell quiet and Dean glanced at him. The younger boy's eyes had taken on a slightly glazed look and Dean knew it was from the pain. Sam was not handling it well. He had not left the upper floor since their arrival, forced to rely on Dean to select the most appropriate material for the task, but his insistence on supervising Dean's construction method was taking its toll. Sam should be concentrating on blocking, on reserving his strength. But he was not, and it was wearing him down.

Dean quickly finished up, stood and moved to his brother. He crouched before Sam, his heart clenching at the unmasked pain on the younger man's face. He rested one hand on Sam's shoulder. "Is there any other way?" he asked gently, a tremor in his voice. He swallowed hard and waited for Sam to answer.

"No."

"There's still ammo in the Chevy. It's an acceptable risk."

"No it's not."

"I can take care of it. All of it. You don't need to be there."

Sam's expression twisted. "No, Dean. No. We've been over this. Even if I could accept the idea of you doing that, which I can't, it could backfire. It's not worth the risk."

"You are worth the risk, Sam."

Sam turned his head to the side. "We're doing this. It's the only way."

It was not what Dean wanted to hear. It was not what he was willing to accept. He stood and retreated downstairs. He stopped at the landing between the first and second levels, his legs shaking, his knees weak. He slumped against the wall but resisted the urge to slide down. His breath came in ragged, sharp pants that pitted his vision and numbed his hands. He flexed his fingers and struggled to regain control. He couldn't.

He slid to the floor of the narrow landing, his vision blurred and wet warmth on his cheeks. He angrily scrubbed at his eyes and sucked in a hard, long breath. Sam deserved better than this. But Dean could see no options. No way out. For either of them. But he would be damned if he wouldn't give his baby brother a fighting chance.

He returned to his brother, his arms laden with materials sourced from the lower levels of the warehouse and from dumpsters nearby. Some of it smelled of mustiness, waste and other things that Dean did not want to know about. He knelt on one knee, unloaded his burden and offered a wan smile at Sam. The younger boy blinked and regarded him wearily. He lazily scanned the items Dean had brought in. His gaze locked on one item and one corner of his mouth twitched.

"You can't stop the music," he said dryly.

Dean frowned and scanned the small pile. "What?"

"Nobody can stop the music," Sam continued and his voice had taken on a slight off-key lilt. He raised his eyebrows at Dean, then gestured to the yellow construction helmet. "Try making me wear flannel sleeveless shirts and I'll pound your ass."

Dean got it, and he forced a thin smile. It faded just as quickly as the hideous rendition of the Village People song. "You're not going to argue, are you?"

"No. It's a good idea. But what's the rest of that stuff?"

"Packaging, aka padding. And these," he picked up a roll of hard, flexible plastic. "Wrist and elbow guards." He hesitated, glanced at Sam's lanky legs, and added, "and for those knobby knees of yours as well."

Sam smiled faintly, his attention sliding to the item that Dean had not explained. He picked up the safety vest and fingered it. "What have you done to it?"

"Made some minor enhancements."

"Do I need to be afraid, MacGyver? You know your track record with home-made gadgets."

"Not the EMF again, Sam."

"No, I was referring to the hair dryer you converted to a thermal scanner. What the hell were you thinking, you freak. You took out half of the power grid in that shit-hole town that we were in."

"Half the power grid constituted twenty houses, and it would have worked. It just needed a few modifications."

"You needed modifications after Dad had finished with you."

Dean grinned in recollection. "Yeah, he was pretty pissed."

"If you hadn't suffered second degree burns, he would have tanned your ass."

"Yeah, well. At least I showed initiative."

"You had no eyebrows, Dean." Sam hesitated, then a small smile touched his lips. "That was funny."

"Dude, watch it."

Sam's smile faded as he fingered the reinforced vest. He fell quiet as his long fingers teased at the black and orange acrylic. Dean dropped his gaze, sucked in a breath and snagged the plastic roll. He unwound a length, cut it off and flexed into a loose shape. He hesitated, then gently touched Sam's wrist. Sam flinched, then raised his arm, allowing Dean to fashion the plastic into a snug protective guard that hugged the contour of Sam's forearm, tight around the muscle yet not too tight to prohibit movement.

"It's not cutting in?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head, his gaze averted. When prompted, he offered his other arm and Dean repeated the procedure. He similarly taped protective guards around Sam's ankles and knees. Throughout it, Sam remained quiet and compliant, but Dean sensed the younger boy's growing anxiety and felt the building tremors through his muscles. Still Sam would not look at him, his fingers tightly clenched around the vest.

Dean gently reclaimed it, his own hands shaking as he wordlessly helped his brother into it. It fastened at the front, but Dean had cinched in the back so that the fitting was secure against his brother's lean, muscular frame. Once on, it required a slight adjustment at the shoulders and Dean started on it, his breath catching at the tears standing in Sam's eyes. The vague tremors had exacerbated to full on trembling, and the bleeding had increased.

Dean's movement stilled. He held his breath as Sam's tentative bravado continued to erode before his eyes. He drew his hands down to Sam's biceps, hoping for a reassuring touch but it seemed to further agitate his already panicked sibling.

"You need to breathe, Sam." He struggled to remember what he had observed Marcus doing, how the psychic had calmed Sam down, grounded him. "Take a breath and count to ten. Hold it…"

Sam shook his head and tore his gaze away. "I don't think I can do this."

Dean tensed and frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I'm scared, Dean," Sam said admitted, his tone heavy with shame and fear. As though mortified that he had admitted it, he tried to pull away, tried to stand. Dean stopped him.

"Sam, calm down."

"Dean, no. I can't block it. I can't hold it off. You won't have enough time. I don't want to die, Dean. I'm not ready," he finished in a rush, his glazed eyes darting, shiny with pain and fear. He again tried to stand and Dean gently pushed him back. The entity had obviously upped the intensity of its connection in an effort to break Sam. And the bastard's strategy was working. The kid was rattled, falling apart, his courageous emotional barriers shattered.

"Dean, please. I can't… I can't…" he broke off, his breath catching on a sob. He seemed to try to catch himself, tried to wipe at his bleeding nose with one arm but the protective plastic wrapping prohibited contact with the fabric of his jacket and served to further illustrate the horror of what he was being forced to do. He met Dean's gaze, his eyes pleading and desperate.

It broke Dean and he pulled his brother into his embrace, his own breath catching in his throat. He closed his eyes against the sharp burn of tears as Sam trembled against him, the younger boy's fingers fisted in the back of his jacket, and his chin on Dean's shoulder. Dean felt his little brother's resistance slip away, felt him press against him, and he felt the shuddering as he cried. It lasted too long, but not long enough and then it shifted and Dean felt the change. Sam slumped against him, his sobs taking on a vicious pained sound that scared Dean to the core. He gently pushed his brother back, steadying him against the wall. Sam's eyes were closed, his jaw rigid and the blood from his nostrils heavy and dark.

They were out of time. The entity no longer prepared to wait. Dean eased Sam to his side, into the recovery position, then stood, withdrew the re-loaded Glock from his jeans and moved into the main room. Tara stood stock still in the centre of the room, her unseeing eyes locked on him. He raised the weapon, braced his shaking hands and approached. He stopped ten feet from the child and steadied his aim. He hesitated, uncertain. Not about killing the child, he no longer had any doubt about that, but about where the bullet needed to go to limit the risk of the entity escaping. Heart or head?

He blinked, the room darkened and a sharp, burning scent stung the air. His finger tightened on the trigger, the darkness rose, vapor formed and lashed out. Dean's finger squeezed but the shot went wild as he was struck hard. He fell, hit the floor and slid, stunned. The gun twisted from his grip, hung in mid air then whipped around and Dean found himself staring into the muzzle of his own weapon. His mouth went dry. He froze, his heart pounding. In his peripheral vision, Tara fell to her knees.

The dense shadowy form shimmered, the barest edge of transparency striking through it. The weapon slipped, angled down. The trajectory would still maim and Dean barely dared to breathe. The amorphous vapor spasmed and a blinding sliver of light sliced through it. The gun dropped – thunked hard against the concrete. Dean grunted and sprang back as the vapor sucked back into the child. Her small body twitched as the entity returned. The child lay for a moment, then collected her splayed limbs, stood and wordlessly watched him.

Dean shakily snagged the weapon, the pads of his fingers immediately recognizing the change. He looked down, chilled, his mind unable to immediately comprehend what he saw. He blinked and took a small step back, his fingers loosened on the now useless weapon, the metal formless, misshapen.

"Dean."

He turned, his breath frozen. Sam leaned in the doorway between the two rooms, blood smeared across his face, the safety vest lurid and the padding ridiculous. Dean looked down at the gun. "I think I screwed up," he whispered.

Sam frowned, looked between he and Tara and shook his head. "No, you didn't. You weakened it, Dean. Help me with the helmet then get into the shelter. I can do this now. But we have to move fast."

Dean scanned his brother's face, but only the moist redness of his eyes hinted at the momentary breakdown. The edge of pain was still present, but controlled. Sam had recaptured the qualities of the courageous, strong and fearless hunter that Dean knew and relied upon, the terrified little boy once again tucked deep in Sam's psyche. He mechanically nodded, tucked the now useless weapon in the waistband of his jeans and joined his brother. There was no humor as he fitted the construction helmet to Sam's head and tightened the straps. Sam looked ridiculous, but Dean did not care. If he could have found a protective bubble, full body padding or a fat-suit, he would have forced his brother into it. Anything to keep the kid alive, preferably unscathed but Dean knew that would be asking too much. His hands lingered, toying with the now tight straps. He could not yet break away.

"I trust you, Dean. Whatever happens, it won't be your fault," Sam said softly.

Dean's hands stilled. He looked up. Sam wore an expression of calm resolve, of acceptance. Dean's vision blurred. "Don't you dare talk like that, Sammy," he rasped.

"It will be okay. Whatever happens." Sam hesitated, then a bitter smile curved his lips. "And, it's Sam."

Dean swallowed hard, then whispered, "I know, little brother. I know."

* * *

Sam felt Dean's gaze on his back as he approached the child. His hands shook at his sides and he clenched and unclenched, the hard plastic uncomfortable against the tender skin of his inner wrists. He preferred it to the alternative though. It would offer some protection him if he were thrown, and Sam knew he would be. 

His steps faltered. Mouth dry, he tried to lick his lips but tasted only blood and the dryness of terror. Sam took full deep breaths, calming, just as Marcus had taught him. It helped, but only the entity's destruction would give Sam the relief he needed. He glanced back at Dean, saw his brother's wide eyed anxiousness. The elder boy had one hand against the Plexiglass, the palm flattered against the plastic. In his other hand he held Beth's book, open to the ritual. He was prepared, but not ready. Neither of them were. But they could wait no longer. Sam steeled his resolve and reached out.

The moment his fingers touched Tara's skin, the entity launched. Even partially neutered by Dean's attempted homicide, it swept forth with significantly more force than that which Sam had encountered with Beth. Sam reflexively darted back, grunting as the shadow leaped upwards, twisted and then shot toward the small foyer… toward Dean. Sam recognized its intent and he frantically reached out with one hand – tried to snag it, distract it. His fingers caught in the dark wisps. Rapidly moving molecules bladed his fingers to the bone. Sam cried out and withdrew.

Dean had read only the first line of the incantation when the entity reached him. It moved with blinding speed and Sam could barely comprehend what was happening as the dense vapor blocked his view. Sound slammed hard, the wretched tearing of molecular destruction. Then Sam knew. He _knew_ what it was doing and he screamed. Barely a heart-beat later, before Sam could rush to his brother's aid, the shadow scaled in on itself and sucked back into the main room. It had Dean, the elder hunter caught and struggling, his legs dangling and hands grappling with the hold around his neck. The malevolent darkness bucked and recoiled, loosening Dean and throwing him. His body flew with all the grace of a child's puppet, then landed hard against the far wall and slid down.

Sam started forward, his momentum negated as his feet swept out from beneath him. The entity propelled him backwards, slammed him hard against the wall and held him there. Constriction around his throat forced Sam to panic, to struggle. It tightened, asphyxiating. His lungs burned. Black spots danced and solidified. His struggles lessened. At the point of near unconsciousness, Sam was released. He dropped, listless, and lay where he had fallen. He watched through slitted eyes as the entity turned its attention to Dean.

Sam moaned and weakly slid his bloodied left hand across the concrete floor. He watched Dean push to his feet. The older boy swayed unsteadily, the right side of his face bloodied. He steadied himself against the wall, his expression dazed but murderous. If big brother protectiveness meant anything, Dean would have had a chance, but it didn't. Sam watched with a sick heart as the entity snagged the older boy, arced back and launched his body at the window.

It all happened so fast. So brutally that Sam struggled to keep up. One moment Dean was there. Then he was not. Splintered glass and silence cascaded. He flinched, the reality of what had just happened not quite registering. He stared, aghast, tried to think, to remember how far to the ground. Two flights of stairs, two levels. At least twenty-five feet. Sweet Jesus.

"No," Sam rasped. He pushed to his feet, swayed and staggered. "Dean. Dean!" He gained his equilibrium and rushed forward, screaming as he was again cut off mid-stride. The violent blind-side shocked Sam's heart into a panicked rhythm. He twisted and pushed, screaming as it lifted him. He was thrown just like his brother had been, but not out the window. The entity wanted him, but it wanted him broken. Sam landed hard, his shoulder and hip taking the worst of the impact. Sharp pain spun through both joints, then dulled to a throb once he had hit the floor. He struggled to push himself up, anger and adrenalin keeping the worst of the shock at bay.

Light blocked as the entity shoved him back, pinned him down and drew his injured hand away from his body. Sam arched back as white hot pain seared through the cuts in his fingers. The onslaught lasted only seconds, but it left Sam sobbing. He rolled onto his side and clutched his shredded hand to his chest. The slices had been opened, the yellow-white of bone and muscle visible against the minced flesh of his palm.

He closed his eyes against hot tears, sucked in a shaky breath and began reciting the exorcism ritual. He had made it a quarter of the way through when it descended again. Sam cinched back, his pulse quickening. Electricity prickled his skin as he was lifted, spun and thrown. Scorched air whistled past his ears before he hit the wall. He momentarily blacked out, then came to in a tangled heap on the floor, choking and spitting blood. He reflexively curled, gasping as pain skewered through his left leg, knifed upward and twisted bile to the back of his throat. He stilled, panting, then recommenced the ritual with a shaky, soft voice.

Fine specks of blood spattered the floor before him. He ignored them and the strange, heavy pull in his chest that prohibited deep breaths. He battled the terror, the pain, the taunting sing-song voice at the back of his mind that told him that his brother was dead. Splattered on the road like a fat, juicy bug on a windshield. He blocked it all and fought with all that he had… and more. Because Sam Winchester was John Winchester's son and Dean Winchester's brother… he was much more than Sam, and he owed his small fractured family much more than to die in a bloodied heap in an abandoned warehouse at the hand of some fucking shadow. No Winchester would die that way. Not now. Not ever.

He kept quietly reciting, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He could not see the entity, but he knew it was near. Waiting. Watching. It unnerved him, forced him to stutter the words, mess up the pronunciation. When he could tolerate it no more, he gingerly rolled onto his back. The bulky construction helmet knocked softly against the concrete floor. As he had guessed, the dark malevolence hovered over him, but it was what lay nestled in the velvet darkness that shot fear through his heart. Glass glinted, a five inch triangular shard, the edge bloodied. His lips parted. He tensed to shimmy away, but again it pinned him down, held his head still and as the shard of glass sliced down toward his face, Sam regretted his damned curiosity.

The glass shard sliced cleanly, almost surgically, and Sam barely felt the incision. Warm blood splashed though, and Sam knew the cut was deep and long across his cheekbone. The entity had opened a physical portal to his body, his mind… his psychic power. Burning then preceded the intense explosion of pain through his mind. Sam went rigidly tense as the onslaught began. As it drew on, Sam lost the physical battle against the pain but instead of losing consciousness, his awareness shifted. He became a witness to the battle of his psychic power. Energy against energy. Pulsating morbid darkness against a lighter, brighter, rapidly pounding light that charged and buzzed, soothing yet inherently strong. It pushed against the encroaching darkness, shouldering it out. The battle was over relatively quickly, and Sam was aware when the entity stood down and retreated. He had held it off. He had won, but there was no victory. Because now he would die.

He whimpered as his consciousness shifted back and with it came the overwhelming pain. The brief reprieve made the shift back even crueler and Sam twisted and cried soundlessly, forced to still as the pain intensified. The air shifted, darkened and Sam was forcefully struck, propelled across the concrete floor in a tangle of bloodied limbs. He mercifully blacked out.

* * *

Street after street, avenue after avenue, Missouri Mosely cruised each one, scanning and searching for the jet black Chevy Impala. She knew that the boys had gone to the east side of Lawrence, most likely the industrial district, but though that narrowed things down, it did not narrow it enough. She also knew that she was running out of time. 

Ten minutes earlier, she had reached Dean by phone. He had sounded winded, scared and he had been curtly brief, giving nothing away. Missouri recognized the self-sacrificing tone that was so purely Winchester and it had chilled her. She had pressed harder, and expected him to deny her any indication… but then he had quietly given her a hint. In reflection, that had scared her the most. Dean clearly did not want her involved, but he did want her to at least have a chance of finding them. Eventually. Which meant he doubted their chances of survival.

As the minutes moved on and she expanded her search, Missouri's fear grew. Street after street, the traffic becoming less with every passing mile. The warehouse district emptier, more deserted. If the boys were in this area, and things went wrong for them and they could not call for help, then they would be on their own. No passing Good Samaritan who may clue in and offer assistance. No one. Missouri's anxiousness grew and she tensed to press the accelerator harder, then held back. Her gaze unwilling shifted to her hands, to the darkened stains against her skin, the evidence of Marcus' fate. Why she had touched him, she would never know, there had been no hope. No chance.

Now the boys faced off against the very same thing that had slit Marcus' throat without warning and without regret. She shifted her gaze up to the quiet streets, the darkening avenues. Blood red fingers of the setting sun lit the sky ahead and she stiffened against the beautiful yet foreboding sight. She glanced down at the phone on the seat beside her, but did not pick it up. It was pointless. The boys were no longer answering. Maybe they no longer could.

She tightened her grip on the wheel and refocused her attention, forcibly shifting the bitter thoughts to the side. She would find them and they would be unharmed. There was no other acceptable alternative. No Winchester was expendable, but especially not the two youngest members of the tragically haunted family that she had adopted as her own.

* * *

Sam regained consciousness with a start. He still lay on the warehouse floor, the concrete cold and hard. He trembled violently, his teeth chattering. Blood filled his mouth but he was too weak to spit it out, so he swallowed, nauseated by the coppery slide down his throat. He blinked, but could not see the entity within his small field of vision and he dared not move to expand it. His eyes slipped closed and he lay quietly before the Latin verse nudged at him. He had to continue, and he did, breathily soft. 

The incantation bit off as darkness enveloped him, the cold, dense mass of the entity. Sam's eyes jolted open. He was being moved, cradled, his shattered left leg supported in an obscenely tender embrace. Sam cried out anyway, then bit down to stifle another scream. He struggled to comprehend the shifts in sensation and tensed as the floor moved away. It was lifting him. Raising him toward the ceiling. It moved with a quiet determined calm that unnerved Sam. He pushed against it with his uninjured hand and tried to twist away. The pain of broken bones didn't reach him, the burst of adrenalin, of terror of what was now coming, was an effective anesthetic.

_Deleo._

The single Latin word slid through the young hunter's mind, pressing him, begging him to utter it. The last word of the ritual. Sam's vocal cords squeezed shut, the bitter urgency to release the word denying him the voice to do so. His heart jack hammered. He was now at least eight foot off the floor, still gently held, cradled in a throbbing, pulsing, bitterly dark embrace. He licked his lips, trembling with the need to finish this.

Cold cinched around one wrist, drawing his uninjured hand away from his body. Sam grappled to break free, grunting as the cradled embrace dropped away without warning. His body went into freefall, pulled up short by his wrist. He screamed then breathlessly sobbed as gravity pulled and stretched. He couldn't breathe and his vision blackened. He fought to regain control, to get some air into his lungs but pain denied him everything.

It paused again, and Sam gasped raggedly, his head spinning as he shallowly sucked in oxygen. As he regained some control over his tortured body, he wondered if the entity pitied him. He doubted it. More than likely it was weakening from its extended out of host excursion and the near completion of the exorcism. Regardless of the motive, or cause, its hesitation gave Sam an opening, a chance. "Deleo," he breathed, and the pronunciation was perfect.

Everything grew quietly still. An uneasy calm. Sam raised his head and blinked the blood from his eyes. He clenched his fist, tried to break free. If it dropped him, he would not have far to fall. But it would still hurt like hell with the numerous injuries he already had. But he would live. He would find Dean and it would be okay. He relaxed and another second ticked past.

He felt the change a heart-beat before it happened. And his eyes widened in shocked understanding. He tensed to struggle, but was not given a chance. His body jolted as the ignited air sprang back, pulled taut, leaving the wounded boy painfully hanging by one wrist before he was flipped, spun and thrown. The recoil lashed through Sam, grinding broken bones, splattering blood and slamming him into unconsciousness long before his body hit into the far brick wall.

**

* * *

End Chapter Eleven**

_Hey all, thanks so much to those who are personally reviewing. I hope I've replied to you all, if not then I will. Your words mean so very much! You guys keep me motivated and keep me writing when I nudge up against burn-out. I'm eager to get this story finished and it's taking longer than I had thought. I'm still putting my heart and soul into it… which is probably why I'm feeling so drained. But I am really keen to get to the end. And there is an end… trust me, it's all plotted out… it's just writing it that gets exhausting (exciting, but tiring). Anyway, hope you enjoyed. :-)_


	12. Chapter 12

**ENTITY (Chapter Twelve)**

From Chapter Eleven:

_Everything grew quietly still. An uneasy calm. Sam raised his head and blinked the blood from his eyes. He clenched his fist, tried to break free. If it dropped him, he would not have far to fall. But it would still hurt like hell with the numerous injuries he already had. But he would live. He would find Dean and it would be okay. He relaxed and another second ticked past._

_He felt the change a heart-beat before it happened. And his eyes widened in shocked understanding. He tensed to struggle, but was not given a chance. His body jolted as the ignited air sprang back, pulled taut, leaving the wounded boy painfully hanging by one wrist before he was flipped, spun and thrown. The recoil lashed through Sam, grinding broken bones, splattering blood and slamming him into unconsciousness long before his body hit into the far brick wall._

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

With the car window down, Missouri felt the gentle drop in temperature as day ceded to night. The warehouses had taken on a dusky pink tone, bricks sparkling and windows glinting. Shadows lengthened and with it came a sense of foreboding. Missouri had always been running out of time, ever since she had set out, but now each passing second hammered like a death knell.

She tried calling them again. Both boys. Both numbers. No answer. She drew the thumbnail of one hand under the fingernails on the same side, sloughing off the crusted blood. Marcus' blood. Her soul ached, caught with a numbing pain that she doubted she could recover from. She could not lose those boys too, yet as the time moved on, she could not help but fear that before the day was out, she would have Winchester blood on her hands, caked and cloying, staining her skin.

The thoughts dispersed, forced off with by a determined clench to her jaw and a strengthened resolve. She approached another junction, another avenue of choices. Left or right… or straight ahead. She had given up trying to intuit the direction, trying to sense them. The intersection drew near and she slowed, deciding to continue straight yet preparing to scan both ways as she cruised through. Before she reached the corner, a wisp of smoke caught her attention. Just off to the left in the street ahead. She leaned forward as the tendril steadily darkened, deepened. Blacker than the closing night sky, the shape twisted and arced, growing as it reached skyward. It shuddered and tightened with a fierce negativity, as though rejecting the heavenly pull. Missouri hit the brakes, transfixed by the unearthly sight.

The black vortex viciously arced up then splayed apart, shattering with a piercing white light. Missouri flinched back, shielding her eyes as the shadow vaporized. One second later, it was gone, a sharp stench of burned ozone in its wake.

Shaking, she pumped the accelerator and wheeled the car around the corner. She expected to see the Chevy. But the street was empty of the car, instead she was met with her greatest fear: blood… Winchester blood. She moaned softly as she slammed on the brakes, cut the engine and pushed from the car. Almost as an afterthought, she grabbed the phone, her fumbling fingers dialling 911 as she ran to the figure that lay on the road.

"Dean. Oh, honey." She fell to her knees beside him. Blood leached from the injured boy, covered his face, his closed eyes, his dirt-blonde hair. He lay on his side on the pavement, still and quiet, one arm extended at almost a ninety degree angle, the other awkwardly twisted beneath his body. Blood pooled at the wrist of the caught limb, a heavy trail that sourced from further up his arm, the wound hidden beneath the leather jacket. Compound fracture, she thought bitterly, but she was not about to mess with it. She pushed the phone to her ear as her fingers sought a pulse, any sign that the wounded young man was alive. As the operator came on the line, Dean moaned, low and deep. She gently pressed against his carotid artery at the same time and the sound and the touch eased some of the raw terror that whittled through her.

"I need an ambulance," she said as an operator responded. Her gaze lifted to the warehouse beside her. Shattered glass framed the second storey window. "Please send two units. Corner of Baker and Stanton Avenues, East Lawrence. Hurry."

"Can you tell me what the emergency is?" the operator asked.

She scanned shaking hands over Dean, the phone pressed between her chin and shoulder. "There are two boys, men… brothers. Injured. I've found one, but… the other."

"Maam, you need to calm down. Take a deep breath."

"It's Missouri not _maam_, and have you dispatched the two ambulances?"

"Yes. ETA is seven minutes. And I'm Anna. Can you tell me what has happened?"

She ignored the question, focussed instead Dean. She touched his face, encouraged when he roused and blinked dazedly. "Oh honey, don't try to move, you're a bit banged up right now."

His glazed eyes sought hers but there was no recognition there. Nothing that came even close. He weakly called for his brother, the name low and laced with pain. Her heart clenched and she glanced toward the warehouse window. There was no sign of the younger boy, yet the entity had been dealt with. Exorcised. She struggled to understand what had gone wrong. Why Dean was in the street, and why Sam was not with him. She rested a hand on Dean's shoulder, against the black leather jacket that was now soiled with his blood. She needed to exert little force to keep him down. He called for his brother again and she directed her attention back to Anna, the operator on the other end of the cell phone connection.

"One boy, Dean, has a head injury. He's fallen from a two storey window, I think he also has a compound fracture to his right arm, there's a lot of blood around his hand, at the cuff of his jacket. I can't see what other injuries he has aside from his head. He's bled a lot but it seems to have stopped now."

"Is he conscious?"

She glanced down, her breath snagging as Dean's glazed eyes rolled slowly, unfocussed. "Barely."

"Is he on his side or on his back?"

"Side."

"Check his airway."

She did, quickly and gently probing his mouth for blood. She found none. She leaned back and updated the operator. "His breathing is shallow, but unrestricted. There's no blood in his mouth."

"Good. That's good. Don't try to move him."

"No, I won't. But I need to find his brother. I think he's also hurt." She again looked toward the window, her breath grating and cold. Her hands shook, the phone bumped against her ear as she trembled.

"The paramedics are six minutes away, Missouri."

She nodded, acknowledging the operator's reassurance, her calm tone. It did not ease the gnawing unease. She watched the window, the gaping void framed by shattered glass. "Sam," she called. "Sam, can you hear me?"

Beneath her hand, Dean shuddered and moaned. His eyes tracked lazily then slipped closed.

"Anna, he's passed out." She darted a hand to his neck, gently probed through the slick blood for his pulse.

"Is he still breathing?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then don't try to wake him. We no longer consider it useful to keep head injury victims awake. If he stops breathing then I'll talk you through what to do next. But let's deal with one thing at a time."

She wiped her bloodied hand on the thigh of her trousers and rocked back on her heels. Anxiousness again drew her attention up, to the window, to the silence that echoed back. Sam was up there. She knew it. But he was not answering. "Dean's brother is missing," she said desperately. "I think he's hurt too."

"You need to stay with Dean."

"He would not want me to."

"Missouri, it is important that you stay with him. You're doing very well. The paramedics will be there soon."

She looked down at the elder boy, Sam's brother, and she knew what he would want her to do. She touched him again, felt the regular thrumming of his pulse against her fingertips. "How far away are they now?"

"Just over five minutes. Missouri, you need to stay with him."

"I can't." The words tore at her, made her ache with pain so deep that she could barely breathe through it. She dropped the phone to the pavement, letting it rest beside Dean's open palm. "Honey, I'm going to find your brother. You have to stay strong for me. The paramedics will be here soon, they will look after you. And I promise you, I will find Sam. I will take care of him."

He could not hear her, trapped in a deep, dark unconsciousness, the crusting blood on his face, down his neck and pooled beneath his head a testament to the severity of his injuries. She knew full well that leaving him alone was utterly reckless. Dangerous.

She retrieved the phone, pushed to her feet and winced at the ache through her that was more than her aging knees. The strong young man before her did not move, he lay in his own blood, oblivious to her agony and the decision she was being forced to make. She whispered down to him, her tone falsely harsh. "Don't you dare make me regret leaving you, boy."

* * *

The stairs were long, dark and brutal on aging knees, but Missouri was lost in her own bitter world so she barely felt the pain. She moved with Dean's blood on her hands, Sam's absence numbing her heart. She knew full well that she may have just doomed the elder boy to death. For all she knew, he may have stopped breathing as soon as she turned her back on him. Instead of being there to resuscitate, to give him a fighting chance, she had walked away. Left him unconscious and helpless. 

She hesitated, gasping as her vision blurred and tears stung her eyes. She leaned heavily against the wall of the first floor landing, the burden of choice too heavy to bear. She knew Dean would forgive her for abandoning him, but he would never forgive her if she did not make an effort to help Sam. So she continued – hauling her weary body up the concrete steps to a scene that she was not prepared to face. Yet she reached it all too soon. And it stopped her cold.

As she stood at the entrance to the second storey warehouse floor, the red hue of sunset lacing curdled fingers across the room, she wished she had stayed downstairs. Saved herself the agony of seeing Sam's broken body, the blood splattered on the walls, across the floor, and the hideous cloak of death that falsely cloistered the young boy's motionless form. But she was there now and she had to face it.

She saw Sam first, but unable to process the sight, she moved her attention to Tara. The child was curled into a loose ball by one wall, her eyes closed, her back rising and falling in sleep. Missouri hesitated, she should check her… but her attention roved back to Sam and she had to go to him first.

The youngest Winchester lay toward the side of the room, far from the wall, but not quite in the centre. Tragically still and broken, his abused body cut and bleeding. She crossed the distance on numb legs, her mind abstractly processing the yellow helmet blotched with dark patches of red, the black webbing around his limbs, the lurid safety vest. But it was the blood on the floor around him that halted her movements, made her own blood churn iced cold through her veins.

He lay in a similar pose to his fallen brother, on his side, one arm twisted beneath him, but where Dean's injuries had shocked her, Sam's left her sickened. The boy had been tortured. Brutalised. The blood on the walls and floor had already clued her in that something shocking had happened here, but the variety and extent of his injuries sealed the fact. He had been cut, his left hand and face – injuries that had an edge of cruel deliberateness about them. His left leg lay twisted and blood soaked through the denim and past the black plastic webbing that hugged the outline of his shin. Most of the blood seemed to have come from those three injuries, but Missouri knew the boy was hurt much worse than that. She also now had a little more of an understanding of what had happened, and it churned bile to the back of her throat. Clearly Dean had been thrown out of the window, but Sam… the entity had played with Sam.

She grasped the phone, the line still open to the operator, and dropped heavily to her knees. She reached out a shaky hand, hesitated then drew the phone to her ear. She had to swallow several times before she could bring enough saliva into her mouth to permit clear speech. "I found Sam," she finally forced out.

The operator took a moment to respond then her tone was cautious. "Missouri?"

She held her breath as she felt for a pulse. She could not immediately find one and she gasped softly and closed her eyes, pressing deeper, harder, her fingers sliding through the blood as she searched for some sign that the boy still lived. Eventually she found it. Weak and erratic.

"I found a pulse," she forced out. "But he's hurt bad. Worse than Dean. Much worse."

"Try to stay calm. You should be able to hear the sirens now."

She could not, but that was probably due to the vicious pounding of her own heart slamming blood through her veins. "What can I do for him?"

"Is he breathing?"

She was not sure so she leaned in close. Again she struggled to hear anything, but as she drew back, she saw the bubbles of blood on his lips and heard a raspy, wet sound. "His lungs," she said weakly. "They must be damaged, he's breathing through blood."

"Okay, that's okay. As long as he's breathing, he's okay."

"What if his breathing ceases?"

The operator hesitated then said, "I could step you through a technique, but it won't come to that. The paramedics will be there within a minute. They will know what to do for him. For them both. I have told them that you are in the warehouse behind Dean. Is that correct?"

"Yes. If they look up they can see the broken glass." She glanced toward the window and saw strobed lights, red and blue. Distorted against the glass, a twisted vibrancy that made her head ache. "They're here," she whispered.

"I can stay with you. Keep you company while they work," Anna suggested.

"No. Thanks." She cut the connection and closed her eyes. Unable to manage the assault against her senses. But dull thuds, muted voces and eventual footsteps on the stairs forced her back to her surroundings. To the reality and horror of it all.

Two paramedics entered the room, a male and female. They hesitated, their eyes scanning before they exchanged a glance and split up. The woman, a thirty-something brunette with her hair in a ponytail and her uniform crisply pressed, moved to the child. The male joined Missouri.

"I'm Robert, that's Katrina," the paramedic informed, his sharp gaze appraising. His chocolate brown moustache bobbed as he talked, and he nudged a narrow pair of glasses onto the bridge of his nose. He shrugged the kit he had carried in with him, and she caught sight of a tattoo on his inner wrist, a snake or something. It slipped out of view as he bent down.

"Missouri." She gestured to Sam and her voice wavered. "This is Sam."

Robert nodded, knelt and opened his kit. "Has he been conscious at all?"

"No."

"What happened?"

She licked her lips and bowed her head. "I'm not sure."

"That leg looks like an impact injury. Do you know if someone has moved him? Maybe brought him here after he's suffered these injuries at another site. Maybe a vehicular accident?"

Missouri swallowed hard. Could Robert not see the blood on the wall behind her? The thick splatters across the floor. "I don't know," she said woodenly.

He did not look convinced. "You need to move back."

"I'd like to stay with him."

"We need room to work."

"He's only twenty-three years old."

Robert smiled grimly, nodding at his partner as she joined them.

"The girl's okay," Katrina said as she knelt down. She gently pressed her two forefingers to Sam's neck, frowning as she registered the dull pulse. She leaned in a little closer, touching a finger to Sam's lips. "Pneumothorax?"

"Yeah, pretty safe bet," Robert agreed. "We'll need to tube him, start an IV line and get him on the ECG. And that needs to come off." He gestured to the vest. He considered the black plastic on Sam's arms and legs, his gaze lifting to Missouri. "You really have no idea what happened here? What all this is about?"

"No." It was clear that the paramedic did not believe her, but he would not believe the truth any more than a lie. So she pretended ignorance. It was easier than accepting the truth. Accepting that Sam now lay dying on the cold concrete floor, his life beaten out of him by a formless shadow that had a twisted desire to use him as a host for its homicidal progeny.

Tremors rifled through her, making her teeth chatter. She stood, her attention caught by a dirtied, scrap of fabric near Sam's head. She took a moment to realise that it was Tara's stuffed animal, Boris. It had sopped up some of Sam's blood, the long ears stained a bitter, dark red. Missouri picked it up, stroked back its long hair then moved to the window. Behind her the paramedics shot jargon back and forth, hooked up a beeping, blipping machine that stuttered and faltered as a reflection of Sam's failing heartbeat. She looked down at the toy, at the blood, then her shaking fingers opened and the toy fell. It landed without a sound on the concrete floor.

In the street below, paramedics worked on Dean. The elder boy lay on the pavement, an IV line hooked into the back of his uninjured hand, a pressure bandage around his head. Her mouth twitched, relief and horror warring for first place. Dean was still alive. He had not let her down. As she watched, the eldest boy was loaded into the back of an ambulance, his pale, still features bathed in a lurid blue and red wash from the emergency beacons. She moistened her lips and turned away from the window. Robert and Katrina had yet to get a line into Sam. His system was shutting down, and to evidence that bitter fact, the ECG stuttered again. Her gaze shifted to the blood on the walls, the floor, on the cream coloured latex on the paramedic's hands.

"I can't get the tube in."

Missouri unwillingly watched as Katrina struggled to intubate Sam. The neck brace, it seemed was making her task harder.

"I'll get it. You try to get a vein."

They swapped positions, Robert achieving success but Katrina failing.

"It's not working," Katrina said, "we're going to have to go for the femoral."

Missouri steadied herself against the window, a sharp sting against her arm causing her to look down. One of the shards had sliced a nick in her forearm, through the thin shirt and jacket. Blood seeped through the fabric in a thin, misshapen line. She struggled to steady her breath, her racing heart, forced to watch the bitterly dramatic play for life on the cold concrete floor. The paramedics cut away the plastic webbing and Sam's jeans and Missouri covered her mouth with her hand as she saw young hunter's left leg. The blood she had seen on his jeans had come from his knee. The flesh had been torn open, and no doubt the bone beneath had broken. There was so much blood that she could not make sense of it. It sickened Missouri, but the paramedics ignored it. Focussed instead on setting up an IV line into the femoral vein on the right hand side. When they finally got it in, Katrina announced that Sam had stopped breathing.

"Bag him," Robert bit out, cursing as the ECG beeped long and hard: a toneless flatline.

Missouri's knees weakened. She grabbed for the window as they moved Sam onto his back. They supported his neck, but the CPR was brutal nonetheless. She considered the broken glass around the window, the dark stains and the blood red sunset.

"C'mon, kid. Work with me here."

Tears fell warm against Missouri's cheeks. She blinked and watched the sun slip below the horizon.

"I've got a rhythm, but it's erratic," Robert said.

"He's in VF. Get the defib."

"Shit, I've lost him again."

Missouri bowed her head and closed her eyes. Warm tears stung her cheeks. Outside, the breeze picked up, a soft snickering of leaves in the empty avenue. It licked her face, chased away the tears, and opened up a cavernous aching pit in her heart. In her mind's eye, a tiny dimple faced baby giggled cheekily, his sandy haired brother mercilessly teasing.

'_That boy has such powerful abilities.'_ Her own words haunted her. It was never meant to end this way. That boy was gifted, special. No Winchester was expendable… but especially not Sam. She turned, inhaled sharply and limped over to the kneeling paramedics. The man, Robert, had straddled Sam and was performing compressions. His muscles flexed with the pressure he exerted and Missouri felt ill.

They paused after several minutes, and Robert wiped his brow. Sweat hung in tiny loose beads from his moustache. Katrina looked up, her expression grim. She shook her head and Robert nodded. Over the next few minutes, they injected Sam, hooked up a portable defibrillation device and interspersed between manual compressions and charged shocks. Still Sam predominantly remained in flatline. Missouri understood that Sam was dead. But she refused to accept that he could not be brought back. As time slowly moved on, Robert and Katrina's efforts seemed to be waning. Their exchanged glances longer, more meaningful. She stepped forward. "You will not give up. He is not dying here."

"We will keep trying, but you have to understand that –"

"No. All I understand is that he is twenty-three years old," Missouri bit out, her voice catching. "He's just a child. Do not stop until you have him back."

The man hesitated, threw a glance at his partner then unwrapped another syringe.

"Maam, I know this is hard," Katrina started.

"No. You know nothing. Please, just do your job and reserve your judgement. This boy is not expendable. I hope you never need to understand why."

The woman frowned, then returned to her partner and worked with him. Missouri stood back, her arms folded, her heartbeat fast. She silently pleaded, then knelt, wincing as her knees cracked. She took Sam's hand, his flesh still warm, but there was no pulse, no sign of life. However, as Missouri grasped her hand around his much longer fingers, her eyes widened.

Gentle fluttering registered against her mind, a soft, butterfly wing sensation that had not been there before. It was not his pulse. His heart had stopped, she understood that. This was something else. She hesitated, quickly evaluated the risk of harming him with an unwelcome psychic intrusion, then realised she had no alternative. If Sam's body had been compromised by something evil, then she had to know. She had to be prepared. She probed, quickly nudging up against a bright power, a brilliant pure light. It vibrated with a gentle, warm hum that seemed to recognise and welcome her. Within it was a gentleness and courage that was all Sam. She withdrew, encouraged and disturbed. He was holding on, but she had felt him weaken and knew he had so little time left before he would be gone.

She turned tear filled eyes on the paramedics. "You cannot stop. He's still in there," she knew she sounded mad, grief stricken. She struggled for composure. "Please, think what you like, but you cannot stop. He's not ready to die. He's not."

"We will keep trying, but you have to understand that there's little hope now. It may be kinder to let him go."

She shook her head, her vision blurred. "Do not give up. He has not so you can't." She swallowed hard, thumbed the broken boy's cooling flesh then withdrew. She caught a hint of dark bruising along Sam's side and down toward his stomach before his body tensed under the electrical current from the defibrillator. The moment it had dissipated, she clutched his hand and leaned over him, her mouth close to his ear.

"Sam, you hear me boy, you aren't getting out of it that easily. Dean needs you. That stubborn mule of a father needs you." She touched his unmarred cheek, felt the bare roughness of stubble against his jaw. "Sam. You need to fight. I know you can."

The monotonic flat-line gnawed at her and she turned accusing eyes on the paramedics. "Keep going."

Robert's mouth flattened grimly. She glanced at her watch. Sam had been down for well over ten minutes. She knew what that meant… but she also knew what she had felt. She wrung her hands and winced as his body jerked under the electrical current. Again the same dull tone spilled out into the air and Missouri bit the inside of her cheek.

She held her breath and watched the device. Her hand caught his, then a single blip on the ECG caused her to flinch. Another followed, then another. Missouri tightened her hand around Sam's fingers in an encouraging squeeze. The rhythm caught and held. He was back.

"Good boy," she whispered. Now all she felt against her fingers was the gentle burst of his pulse. The psychic hum had gone, shrouded and protected by his physical life-force. She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead and closed her eyes, willing him to stay strong, to keep fighting. She knew he would, because he was a Winchester and John had raised his boys to be survivors. But she was not about to fool herself, Sam had a long hard road ahead and he would need all the support and strength he could get. Missouri would make sure he got it, and more.

* * *

Horrific visual images invaded Dean's slow pull to consciousness. Confusion, blood and pain jarred him awake, but the fog through his mind prohibited full awareness. He moaned, fighting it, knowing he had to try to make sense of it all yet afraid of what he would learn. Then it all locked into place with one sickening thud: the warehouse, the entity, Sam. Oh God, Sammy. Dean's stomach twisted and his eyes flew open. He shuddered against the memories, against the horror of it, the vile conclusions that cut through him. 

"Dean, honey, welcome back."

He turned his head toward the voice, took in the woman seated by the bed, her large motherly form protective and warm. He darted his gaze away, terror pounding through him. He tried to speak, to croak, but he could not utter a single sound. Anxiousness thickened and suffocated. Somewhere close a machine chirped and the woman beside him frowned and leaned forward.

"Honey, it's okay. Sam is alive. He made it through, Dean. And so did you."

"Missouri," he forced out. His tear filled eyes widened and locked on her. He struggled to focus his swimming mind, his unstable vision. If Sam was okay then where was he? Then Dean put the puzzle pieces together. Beneath the aging psychic's warm soothing voice was an impending exception. A huge freakin' _but_. Dean's pulse quickened. He licked his lips, his parched mouth made his tongue feel huge, recalcitrant.

She smiled thinly, retrieved something from beside the bed and then Dean felt a moist coldness against his lips. He opened his mouth, took the offered ice chip and sucked greedily. He watched her and wordlessly questioned. She hesitated, and he felt her take his hand. He tensed and willed her to just spit it out.

"Sam's in the ICU. He was badly hurt, Dean, but the doctors are optimistic."

Dean swallowed hard. He could not speak, could barely hear her past the deafening throb of his own blood against his ears. His eyes locked with hers. She looked down, gently strummed her thumb across the smooth skin on the back of his hand. His vision blurred and his lungs burned. She gently tutted and clutched his hand tighter.

"Dean, honey, he's a fighter. He won't give in."

"Can I see him?" he finally rasped.

"No, you're not well enough to move."

He tried to push himself up, but it was pointless and exhausting. He panted hard and collapsed back against the pillows, shocked by how weak he felt. "What… what did it do to him?"

"We can talk more later, when you're feeling better."

"No. Now. What did it do to him?"

"I think you know."

And Dean did. He had imagined it, had feared it… He closed his eyes against the unwelcome imagery as tears stung his eyes. "Does he have a chance? Really?"

Missouri hesitated, but when she spoke her words were firm. "Yes. He does. He's not going to leave you, Dean. But it's not going to be easy for him and he will need you to be strong. So you need to rest and regain your strength."

"I need to be there when he wakes. I can't let him down again."

"You have never let him down, Dean. And right now he's sedated for the pain, even if he does regain consciousness, he won't be lucid and it won't be for long. Once they move him out of ICU he will be brought in here with you. He will not wake alone."

Dean noticed then that he was in a shared room. He looked across at the empty bed, at the machines beside it. He tightened his fingers around Missouri's. He wanted to ask, wanted to know how badly Sam was hurt… but he also did not want to know. Missouri remained silent though Dean knew she could read his thoughts. He glanced at her with wet eyes and sniffed. She smiled softly.

"You haven't asked about you."

He blinked lazily, gradually becoming aware of the heavy ache through his right arm and shoulder. And his head felt large and scratchy, unusually heavy. "Do I want to know?" he asked thickly.

She raised an eyebrow and considered him. "You'll need a hat for a while, sweetie."

Dean flinched, tensing to draw his hand to his head. She tightened her grip and soothed him.

"You're still handsome."

He flushed and ducked his eyes. He tried a visual triage, but could only see the white sheet. She continued, her voice calm, soft. "You suffered a compound fracture to your right forearm, a dislocated shoulder and abrasions. And a head injury that required surgery to relieve pressure on your brain. It sounds bad, but considering you were thrown from a second storey floor, you are doing exceptionally well. You will be getting used to hospital food for a while though, they want you in for at least a few days."

"To make sure my head doesn't explode," Dean offered weakly.

"Yes."

Dean studied her, his vision a little blurred at the edges so he could not tell if she were joking or not. Then it struck him. Someone had operated on his head. He tried to bring one hand up, suddenly alarmed. "They shaved my head?"

She laughed softly, seemingly amused by his distress. "No, just a small patch at the back. But I know how vain you are. I'll get you a hat."

"I'm not vain."

"No, sweetie you're not," she said, her smile soft and a touch sad. "I'm teasing you. Sleep now, you need to regain your strength."

"Will Sam be here when I wake?" he asked, his voice small.

"Maybe. Now sleep. It's over. You're safe."

* * *

Less than twelve hours later, Dean hauled himself from his bed and plonked himself in a wheelchair. Sweating, pale faced and his jaw clenched in pain, he demanded to see Sam. Missouri knew an unwinnable battle when she saw one and reluctantly agreed to take him. IV bag on pole and all. It was a sombre walk down the corridors, she pushing the squeaking wheelchair and Dean trying not to hiss in pain at every bump along the way. They went up in the elevator to the third floor and into the ICU. Dean's fingers were white knuckled on the steel arm of the wheelchair. And, though she had prepared him, told him the extent of his brother's injuries, there was no preparation for the real thing. 

At Sam's bed, Dean pulled himself up and stood on shaky legs. Missouri steadied him and he did not pull away. Garbed in a white hospital gown that partially gaped at the back, his arm in a sling and his head partially bandaged, Dean looked far from the picture of health. But his brother looked worse. Much worse.

Dean stared with haunted hazel-green eyes at his unconscious brother. Missouri touched his shoulder, wincing as he flinched, his gaze steadily locked on his injured and desperately still sibling. Sam was on a ventilator, sedated and hooked up to machines that monitored his heart-rate, fluid input and output. The sounds were jarring, the scents nauseating and the visual image sickening. Dean was not ready for this. But, the eldest Winchester boy was alarmingly determined and if she had not accompanied him, she knew he would have crawled there by himself.

"He looks awful," Dean said softly, his voice laced with anguished pain.

"He is doing well, Dean. Doctor Archibald suggested that he may be able to come out of here in another day or two."

"It's already been two days."

It had actually been two days and thirteen hours. Dean had been unconscious for most of that himself, between the surgery to reduce the swelling around his brain and the sedation, Dean had endured his own fair share of medical hiatus. But Sam's would be longer, his injuries more severe.

"What did it do to his face?" Dean asked, his pained tone taking on a chipped, quavering edge.

The injury was hidden beneath gauze, the wound sutured, the scarring would be minimal or non-existent. She had told him, and so she gently repeated it. "It cut him, Dean. Along the cheekbone. It was a clean slice, it will heal well. It probably won't even scar."

"How did he finish the exorcism? How could he with… with those… like that. He had to have been in so much…."

"He's strong."

"He should never have to be that strong."

Missouri agreed. She reached out to steady Dean as he sniffed and wavered. She felt anxiousness threading through him, starting as a dull tremble against her hand.

"You can touch his hand, Dean," she said gently. "It helps a little, to feel that under all of the equipment that he is warm, he is alive." When he did not move, she gently grasped his cold hand and placed it over Sam's. He quivered, then stilled as he registered his brother's touch, the gentle pulse against the pads of his fingers. She knew what he was feeling, she had done it so many times herself, to seek reassurance that Sam was actually alive and not an animated corpse.

"I can't reach Dad," Dean whispered. "I've left messages. I've told him about Sammy."

Missouri tensed then willed herself to relax. "He loves you boys so much," she said with forced evenness. And she knew that John Winchester did, even though she disagreed with the way he showed it. But her reassurance was not enough. Dean's shoulders stooped and he seemed to draw even further into himself. "You know he would come if he could," she added.

"Sam needs him."

"It's okay for you to acknowledge that you need him too."

Dean frowned, carefully withdrew his hand and rubbed at his eyes. He returned his tortured gaze to his unconscious brother. "Was there any other way?"

"Honey? I'm not sure I understand."

"Was there any other way we could have gotten rid of it. Did Sam have to go through so much… so much pain?"

She read between the lines, sensed the self-loathing, the guilt, the burden of responsibility. "None of this is your fault."

"He's my brother. My little brother, Missouri. What he went through. I should have protected him from that."

"You were seriously injured."

"Not like that. You know the guy in the next room from me, the eighty and not out dude with the frizzled hair and no teeth?"

"Honey, calm down."

"His pelvis is fractured, just like Sam's, and he's been in here for weeks. They took him off the pain meds this morning and he sobbed like a baby. That poor bastard only has a fractured pelvis, Sam's got that plus more." Dean took a step back, swayed and paled. Missouri moved quickly and caught him before he fell. The young man leaned heavily against her, his breath fast and catching on heavy, racking sobs.

"The pelvic fracture is minor, Dean and Sam is young. He's strong. It's not going to be easy, but he will get through it. He will. You will help him and you will lose this attitude. It's not going to do you or Sam any good."

"I should have protected him."

She sighed and pulled him into her arms, mindful to not put any pressure on his injured right side. "How, Dean? How could you have protected him from that? It left you boys with no choice."

"I failed. I missed. I screwed up."

"Honey, what are you talking about?"

"Tara. I missed. I had a chance to end it and I fucked it all up."

Missouri tensed, ignored his foul language and deliberately did not pull away despite the horror of what he admitted to. Instead of disgust or loathing for the hurting young man, she ached with a longing to shelter these children from all the pain they had ever suffered. Dean Winchester was many things but he was not a killer. The realisation that Dean had been driven to consider that, to acting on it, almost drove her to her knees. Cruel fortune had spared the young hunter's soul, but had made him and his younger brother pay dearly with their blood. It was not right. Not fair.

"Now you listen to me, boy, and you listen good," she whispered, her lips close to his ear. He tensed against her and she tightened her embrace, making him hear her, making him understand. "You had no choice. Either of you. It's hard right now and it's confusing and painful, but time will heal. This will get easier and you will both be stronger for it. Trust me. I'm old and creaky and I know these things."

He slowly pulled away, ducked his head and rubbed at his eyes. She averted her gaze, allowing him to compose himself, to reassemble his pride. After a few moments, she gently touched his arm. "You are a good boy, Dean Winchester and I'm proud of you, but if you cuss like that again, I'll wash your mouth out with soap. And don't you be thinking I won't."

He managed an unsteady smile. His gaze drew back to Sam and the pained, drawn expression returned. "What if it's not over, Missouri?"

"Sam exorcised it. I saw it myself."

"I know, but where did it come from?" He glanced at her, his eyes hooded, worried. "Sam can't go through that again. Any of it."

"He won't have to." But her gaze slid to Sam's bed, to the heavily bandaged hand, the cut on his cheek, the traction that locked his broken femur and knee in place and the sedation that limited movement to give his fractured pelvis a chance to heal. Until he woke they would not really know what had happened to him in those minutes before he had managed to complete the ritual, but she had hazarded a guess. It was not pretty. Neither was the unease that threaded through her. The knowledge that until they had located the source – the entity's origin, it was not going to be over for them. Especially not for Sam – the entity's most prized and eagerly sought after host.

* * *

**End Chapter Twelve.**

_Hey everyone. Thank you all so much for sticking with me on this, and for the amazingly encouraging reviews. It really gave me the boost that I needed, though the next chapter may take a bit more time as I catch up on responses, emails and that infuriatingly persistent real life. lol!> So, if you've reviewed me and I haven't responded, it's not that I won't… I just really didn't want to leave the boys in a broken bloodied heap for too long. So, now that this chapter is up and there's some light at the end of the tunnel, I will get some responses out to those people I've missed. You are all so, so good to me! Thank you!_


	13. Chapter 13

**ENTITY (Chapter Thirteen)**

From Chapter Twelve:

"_What if it's not over, Missouri?"_

"_Sam exorcised it. I saw it myself."_

"_I know, but where did it come from?" He glanced at her, his eyes hooded, worried. "Sam can't go through that again. Any of it."_

"_He won't have to." But her gaze slid to Sam's bed, to the heavily bandaged hand, the cut on his cheek, the traction that locked his broken femur and knee in place and the sedation that limited movement to give his fractured pelvis a chance to heal. Until he woke they would not really know what had happened to him in those minutes before he had managed to complete the ritual, but she had hazarded a guess. It was not pretty. Neither was the unease that threaded through her. The knowledge that until they had located the source – the entity's origin, it was not going to be over for them. Especially not for Sam – the entity's most prized and eagerly sought after host._

**

* * *

Chapter Thirteen**

"Road rage," Dean said simply. He looked past the two officers who were presently taking his statement to the gurney that was being pushed into his room. His pulse sped up and he pushed against the bed, lifting himself higher so he could see his brother. Sam lay unconscious or asleep. He sagged back, throwing a thin smile at the female officer as she swung back to look at him.

"Your brother," she said and her expression was sympathetic, sorrowful even.

Dean nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His attention roamed back to Sam. They had not yet transferred him from the gurney to the bed, working instead on hooking up leads and monitors. Soft beeping flooded the room as Sam's heart-rate monitor powered up. Then one of the nurses flipped it to silent and Dean momentarily lamented the auditory loss.

"Are you sure that you can't give us any more information?" the male officer prompted, young, probably a rookie. His pen was poised over his spiral bound notepad, his expression eager.

"It happened so quickly. Sorry."

"But your car was undamaged," the officer pressed.

"Yeah."

"You know this isn't enough to go on. No description. No damage to your car. Are you sure you didn't see the men's faces?"

"No."

"Mr Packenfrack, are you sure there isn't something else. Something small. We could get an identikit expert in."

Dean's eyes darted back. He still could not get used to that name. What on earth had Missouri been thinking. He forced a thin smile. "No. We were both knocked unconscious, hit from behind. Look, I appreciate your concern, but we're alive. Sam and I. I don't care for more than that."

"But these men could do this to someone else."

"I'm sorry. I can't help."

"Can he? We can return when he wakes."

Dean swallowed. The orderlies were about to move Sam to the bed. It disturbed him to see his brother so damned still, and so heavily bandaged. He should be used to it, he had seen Sam in the ICU for the past two days, but he wasn't. He never would be.

"Mr Packenfrack."

"You can try, but I doubt he'll remember much more than I."

The woman nudged her partner. "We'll leave you to rest. If we find anything, we will let you know."

He glanced at the officers as they looked across at Sam. Then they were gone. He knew they would not return. He had given them enough to eliminate suspicion, but not enough to enable them to work the case. Just another random attack in a big town. He almost felt guilty for racking up Lawrence's crime statistics, then the orderlies moved Sam to the bed and Dean's attention focussed.

Several hours later, Dean was seated beside Sam's bed. A lunch tray of food had been delivered, one for him and one for Sam, but the younger man had yet to regain consciousness and Dean made no start on his own. Eating alone sucked. Especially when it was really bad hospital food. He rested his hand on Sam's shoulder, over the wound that he had gained at Missouri's home after the entity had first tried to claim him. The memories twisted through Dean, and his gaze roamed over Sam's still body, the multitude of bandages, tubes and monitors that tarnished it. Bruised fingers licked across the younger boy's shoulder. Dean drew the sheet down, exposing his brother's bare chest. His breath caught. Technicolor shadows bled down Sam's side, across his stomach and splayed across his hips. Dean drew the sheet back up, then leaned forward, closing his eyes. Tears did not sting them, instead he felt a different, darker and crushing pain. That of guilt and responsibility. He had let Sam down. He had failed.

"No," someone said from behind him and Dean started, grimacing as he jarred his injured arm. He whipped around, his eyes widening as he took in Missouri. She held a large bouquet of flowers but it was the fierce determination on her face that threw him. She plonked the flowers on Dean's bed and moved to him. Her voice was heavy and stern. "You stop that, right now young man. I won't have it, any of it. That boy is alive because of you. This is not your fault. You are not to blame. You have never been to blame."

Dean struggled to understand what she was saying, then it hit him. She had _read_ him. Read his thoughts. His feelings. His private world… the only thing he now had left that had not been bloodied and broken. He saw her expression shift, falter, as she recognised that he understood what she had done. Then the guilt fled and determined resolve darkened her eyes.

"You are reading me?" he forced out, his voice hoarse. "But you said you can turn your gift on and off at will."

"Yes."

"And you've deliberately turned it on. On me."

"I need to be sure you're not thinking stupid thoughts. Like just now."

"You don't have any right—"

"Honey, I know you Winchesters, how you brood. I won't allow it. I won't allow you to hurt yourself that way."

"I have a right to privacy, Missouri. I trusted you to respect that."

"I'm sensing your moods, the aura of your feelings, not your actual thoughts. I only know if you are sad, upset… or feeling guilty. Like just now."

"I don't care. You don't have any right." He moved away from the bed, away from Sam and away from her. He hugged his good arm around himself, cradling the sling that protected the fracture. His shoulder ached and he fought his wildly conflicted emotions. He felt violated. Betrayed.

"Dean, no. It's not like that."

"Are you going to do that to him too." He gestured to Sam. "Read his mind, probe into his thoughts, psycho-analyse him when he can't defend himself."

"You boys have both survived a horrible ordeal. I will not allow either of you to suffer any more and that means keeping an eye on your mental health."

"My mental health is fine." He said, but his voice quavered. The pain through his arm and shoulder notched up and his head throbbed. He glanced at the door and breathed hard. His thoughts scurried wildly, panicked, agitation making it hard to think straight. Movement on the bed snapped his attention back. Sam was waking. Great, perfect timing, bro.

He clutched his throbbing limb close and returned to the bed. He ignored Missouri, and reached for Sam's hand, gently clasping it as his brother moaned, his lips parting.

"Sammy," Dean said, he fought to keep his voice even. "Hey, little brother. Welcome back."

Sam's eyes opened and he stared up, his gaze dulled and empty. He blinked and shifted, wandering. Dean stilled, held his breath. He gently stroked his thumb across Sam's knuckles, pulling his brother's roaming attention to him. "Sammy," he said again, "look at me."

Sam did, and gradually recognition burned, as did memories. He felt the younger man tense, felt his fear and he worked to quickly reassure.

"It's over, Sam. You did it. You exorcised the bitch. You're in hospital and you're going to be fine."

Tears budded as Sam wordlessly stared. Dean glanced at Missouri as she moved in closer. Sam's attention shifted and the tears spilled over as he recognised the psychic.

"Tara is fine, Sam," Missouri soothed. She touched Sam's brow, smoothed the lines on his forehead. Dean tensed, watching her, wondering if she had just read Sam like she had read him. Sam's attention shifted back to him and Missouri retreated, leaving them alone. She did not leave the room though and it prickled through Dean, irritated him.

Sam's lips moved as he tried to speak, but five days of fluids only through an IV left him with no means of verbal communication. Dean offered him some ice chips, as Missouri had done for him several days earlier, and Sam sucked on them. He managed a croak then, and predictably he asked about Dean first.

"I'm fine," Dean reassured, but Sam did not look quite convinced. The bandages, the arm in a sling probably did not do a great deal to reassure. So he offered an explanation. "It's nothing, Sam. Just a broken arm and bit of a knock to the head. Thick skull, you know that. I'll be busting out of here in a day or so."

Sam smiled thinly. He raked his gaze over Dean, then seemed to settle back, reasonably comfortable with what he saw. Dean waited for the next question, it did not take long to come.

"What's wrong with me?"

_What isn't, little brother._ He managed a warm smile, though it did not ease the chill through him. "You're a bit busted up, junior."

Sam's eyebrows knitted together. "It cut me." He grimaced and Dean knew he was remembering. "My hand, Dean." He struggled to sit up, to lift his hand. He cried out then, squeezing his eyes shut in pain. His entire body stiffened.

Dean hit the nurses call button. "Easy, buddy, breathe. Try to relax. Ride through it."

"God… it hurts."

"I know, Sammy, I know." He grasped Sam's uninjured hand and gently squeezed. Sam's fingers tightened around his. A nurse appeared then, and Sam's doctor, Doctor Archibald was right behind her, dressed in pastel garb that clashed terribly with his beet red hair. The thinning strands were combed back harshly, accentuating the receding hairline and big forehead. Big brain, Dean thought each time he saw the man, and his assumption had always seemed to have proven right. Like Marcus Jennings, Sam's doctor lacked dress sense, but he had earned Dean's trust for the courageous attempts he had made to save Sam's life. But right now all Dean wanted was to remove the awful grimace from his little brother's face and his tone lacked the due respect he ought to pay to the man.

"He needs pain relief," Dean bit out. Missouri moved around the bed and touched his arm. Dean shrugged her off. "Now. Give him something now."

The doctor ignored him. "Sam, I'm Doctor Archibald, I need you to tell me on a scale of one to ten—"

"Eight," Sam rasped. He clenched his jaw, breathing hard, his nostrils flared. "Maybe a seven."

"It's easing off?"

"Hmm, a little."

"I can give you a little more, it will take the edge off it but it will make you drowsy. I'd prefer if you could manage it. Can you?"

"Doctor," Dean started and Missouri nudged him.

Sam's eyes flicked to him, then back to the doctor. "I can manage. How long have I been here?"

"Five days."

"Five days," Sam breathed. "What's wrong with me?" Dean's fingers tightened reflexively and Sam glanced at him. The doctor's smooth, deep voice forced the younger man's attention back.

Dean numbly listened as the doctor recounted all of Sam's injuries, the ones he had undergone surgery for, the internal haemorrhaging, microsurgery for the lacerations to his face and hand, the fractured pelvis, broken ribs, knee, femur, punctured lung and numerous abrasions. Doctor Archibald kept it as jargon free as possible, but he was precise and informative. And the extensive list was horribly overwhelming.

By the end of it, Sam was quiet, morosely withdrawn. He no longer met Dean's gaze, or Missouri's, and when again asked about the pain, he requested a sedative. Dean knew he was escaping, unable to deal with all he had just learned.

"It will be okay, we'll get through this," Dean whispered, his words hollow. He sounded like a fake.

Sam stared down, tears budded in his eyes and his gaze fixed on his bandaged left hand. His mouth pulled down hard and Dean saw despair and fear etched deep in his little brother's face. Of all Sam's injuries, the doctor made it clear that his hand would be the one that would result in permanent disability. Even his broken femur and fragmented knee had been repairable. But his hand, the muscles and tendons torn through, the nerves severed, was not. Numbness, loss of dexterity and possible rigidity – claw hand, the doctor had warned. His tone had been sensitive, recognising the impact it was having on his patient, but it did not erase the cruelness of the prognosis. Up until that point, Sam had coped,but the news of permanent disability had broken him.

The medication was administered and once Sam was asleep, the doctor drew Dean and Missouri from the room. They stood in the hallway, Dean leaning against the wall, his legs unstable. He listened to the doctor talk about the importance of lifting Sam's spirits, half his battle would be psychological. Dean nodded in the places where it seemed appropriate, but his thoughts unwillingly drew forward. If Sam could not hold a weapon, could not react quickly in a hunt, he would be a liability. It was almost bittersweet, if Sam could no longer hunt then he could have the life he desired. But Dean knew it didn't work that way. Jessica's death, Max Miller and Tara's little buddy had demonstrated that. Sam was a magnet for supernatural evil. He had to be able to defend himself. Stay safe. Any permanent impairment was a potential death sentence.

"I'll arrange for a psychologist to talk to him," Doctor Archibald said. His pager beeped, he looked down at it, bid a brief farewell and walked away.

Dean's attention skittered and shifted. His head throbbed and his stomach twisted. He suddenly needed to sit down, but he could not move.

"Dean, will I get someone for you?"

He found Missouri watching him intently and he knew she was reading him. He no longer cared. In fact, he partially welcomed it. Being alone in his head right now was terrifying.

"We will get him through this."

He closed his eyes, his heart pounding fast. He heard Missouri call for someone, then he was sliding down the wall, his mind blackening.

He came to on the bed, Missouri at one side, a nurse at the other. His head spun and he felt cold, chilled.

"Is he okay, is it his head?"

"We'll need to run some tests."

Dean closed his eyes, inwardly sighing. More freakin' tests. He wanted to tell them to not bother, but he knew it would be pointless and he lacked the strength to offer up a convincing argument. Several hours later, after being prodded, poked and forced to endure several scans, he was cleared and his brief blackout attributed to exhaustion. He was, however, back on an IV drip, apparently not able to be relied upon to eat enough of the crappy hospital food to keep him sustained.

Missouri sat next on a chair next to his bed, her hands folded in her lap and posture tense. "You gave me a quite a scare, Dean," she said, but her tone held no rebuke, just sorrowful concern.

He felt he should apologise, but he did not now what to say. He looked past her to Sam and an ache so dark and deep skewered through him. "I can't lose him," he said softly. She remained quiet, waiting for him to continue. He did. "You can read me, Missouri. But once this is over, once he's well, you have to stop."

* * *

Bland carrots, broccoli and some other vegetable that had no color, taste or texture sat beside an equally unappealing, rectangular shape that professed to be some kind of meat. Sam could not fathom what it had been in a past life though. He pushed his plate away and observed his brother's equally unimpressive attempts to consume the hospital's latest rather sad offering. Dean sat in a chair beside Sam's bed, recently disconnected from the IV that had caused him to grouse and complain all morning. It had amused Sam, allowed him a distraction from his dark thoughts. They still skittered in sometimes though, and Sam found himself powerless against their pull. 

He fingered the bandages on his left hand. He clearly remembered what the entity had done to him, to his hand. The pain of it had no words, but the images stuck and slithered around in his mind. He knew the doctor was right. There was little hope. But Sam was not a quitter. And the more he thought about it, the more he realised that while he still had a hand, still had all his fingers, he would make them work. All of them. There was no other acceptable alternative.

"Why do they give patients with arm injuries food that needs a freakin' knife and fork?" Dean whined.

"You call this food?" Sam asked softly, his throat still raw from the breathing tube he had endured in the ICU. He arched an eyebrow as his brother looked up at him, then across at his plate.

"You need to eat. Do you need me to cut it up for you?"

"How?"

"I don't know. I'd figure something out."

"I don't even know what it is, man." He prodded at the meat, noting that Dean had the same thing. "What do you think, four legs or two?"

"I'm thinking four, but beyond that, who knows."

"Is Missouri coming in today?"

"Yeah, and she's bringing soup, apple crumble and some health shake for you."

"It'll be for both of us, Dean."

"No, I don't think so."

"Yes, I do think so."

"We'll see."

Sam moved the food around again, then snagged a carrot and moved it to his mouth. He chewed lazily, wearily, even that small act tiring him. Since regaining consciousness the previous day, he had woken three times, two times overnight and then this morning. Each time he stayed awake longer and the pain was less. Whether he was developing a tolerance to his broken body, or they were upping his pain relief, he was not sure.

He finished chewing and considered his brother. Dean had his head down, studiously working on decapitating the limp broccoli floret. With only one functioning arm, it was difficult work. Why Dean didn't just pick the whole thing up and eat it, was lost on Sam. And why Dean even bothered, was also slightly bemusing. The petite female doctor, old enough to be their mother, obviously had the older boy scared. He had been taken off the IV on the stipulation that he eat everything that was put before him. Sam knew he had missed a lot over the five days, but he did not ask what had happened. The haunted look in his brother's eyes told him that he would prefer to not know.

"When are they busting you out of here?" he asked after Dean had consumed one half of his now mashed broccoli.

"Tomorrow."

"If you behave?"

Dean glanced at him, then shrugged. "Now that Missouri is slipping us food, I don't think there'll be a problem."

"You'll be staying with her. Not in a motel."

"Yeah."

"Good."

"You worried about me?" Dean asked cheekily.

"Yes," Sam answered honestly and Dean's smile faded. He ducked his head and continued the vegetable torture.

Sam had not asked about his brother's black knitted skull cap. He did not need to. Dean had admitted to having sustained a head injury, the rest did not take a lot of figuring out. They had operated on him, obviously shaving at least part of his head. It disturbed Sam on a level that he could not reconcile. He fought the memories of his brother being thrown against the wall, his bloodied face, the unsteadiness. Before being thrown from that second storey window, Dean had already been injured, concussed. The two storey drop could have killed him.

Sam pushed the thoughts away, but his appetite was officially non-existent. He laid the fork at the edge of the plate and rested his hand on his stomach. "I exorcised it, right? I mean, that's what you and Missouri told me."

"Yes, you did."

"That's good. Because it would really suck if I hadn't."

"Yeah."

"I remember most of it." He wondered why he needed to say this. Why he needed to remember it. "I remember thinking you were dead. It was like there was a voice in my head taunting me, and it all seemed so pointless, you know."

Dean looked decidedly uncomfortable. He nodded sharply, then looked toward the window. "Yeah," he said throatily.

"I'm sorry."

Dean's attention snapped back. "For what?"

"Letting you get hurt."

"Huh?"

"I tried to stop it, I tried to grab at it."

Dean paled, his gaze flicked to Sam's bandaged left hand. "Ah shit, Sammy. Is that how…."

Sam swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. "It sensed the blood. I never thought it could do that. I mean, we thought the infiltration was through a wound that it made. But… but it sensed that I was bleeding and it tried..."

"Sam, you don't need to do this. It's not important."

"It had evolved, Dean. It was like it was pissed off. It could have held me down from the beginning, overpowered me and cut me. But it didn't, instead, after it had tried to get in through my hand, it threw me."

"Against the wall?" Dean asked, his voice had taken on a thready, reedy note.

"But it didn't need to, Dean. That's what I don't get, man. It was like it was…."

"Playing with you," Dean completed softly.

Sam suddenly felt sick. He nodded, his gaze locked with his brother's. "What the hell was it? And what would it have become if we had not stopped it?"

"I don't know."

"We have to find out what it was. Where it came from."

"Yeah, I know."

Sam leaned back, exhausted. Pain drilled through his leg and up through his hip. He sucked in a breath and exhaled slowly, using breath to leach away the worst of the pain. He watched as Dean stood, collected his plate and carried it to the cabinet near the door. He returned, then sat back down. "We'll figure it out, Sam. We'll fix it."

Sam nodded, his voice soft. "How's Tara?"

"She's fine."

"Did she see… does she remember any of what happened?"

"Missouri says she doesn't."

Sam nodded, the pillow scratchy against his ear. His eyelids drooped and he jerked them open. Dean stood and leaned over. Sam felt his brother's calloused hand push through his hair, the touch tender. There was something so chick-flick about the action that Sam was tempted to tease his brother about it. But he knew that would scare Dean off. And, as much as he longed to regain his independence, his strength, he needed the contact more.

"All I do is sleep," he slurred as the soothing motion against his forehead lulled him.

"Well you were always the lazy one."

"Studious, not lazy."

"Same difference."

Sam huffed, he let a moment pass as he drifted. "Thanks," he finally muttered, his mind dulling as he slipped further under.

"For what?"

"Being here. For being… you."

* * *

"I want Boris," Tara whined. She flicked her legs, swinging them off the edge of the sofa as she sighed dramatically, her small fingers twisted in the hem of her floral dress. "That isn't Boris." She gestured to the doll Missouri had given her and her pout became fuller. 

"Tara, I'm sorry, but Boris has gone away. Now, hurry and go to bed. The Martin's are coming early to pick you up. It will be a big exciting adventure for you so you don't want to be tired."

"I don't want to go."

"But you said you liked Mr and Mrs Martin."

The small girl shrugged then scanned the room, her keen eyes taking in her surroundings as though seeing them anew. "Why do I have to stay with them?"

"So you can get to know them and they can get to know you. It's only a few days, and if you don't like them then you can come back here for a while."

"Why can't I stay here with you and Dean?'

"I've told you, sweetie. Dean and Sam will be leaving once they're well enough to travel and I am too old and crusty to look after a little thing like you."

"Where's Sam?"

"In the hospital honey. I've told you that."

"I want to go see him."

"You can't right now, but soon. You will see him soon."

"I need to ask him about Boris."

Missouri frowned, then took a breath and forced her frustration aside. Since having the entity exorcised from her, the child had persistently begged for the stuffed toy. The only connection to the life she used to have, Missouri realised, and she worked hard to keep her responses calm. "Sam doesn't know where Boris is," Missouri said. She reached down and tucked a wayward curl behind the child's ear. "Now go to bed."

"But, I want to see Dean. Where is he? He's late. He never comes back this late."

"He's not far away," she said, but she was not sure of that. Anxiousness twisted through her as she looked up at the clock on the wall. It had gone ten in the evening. Since Dean's release from hospital two days previous, he had set up base at her home, and he had established a daily routine. All day with Sam. Back home by eight-thirty. He was now one and a half hours late.

"Do the Martin's have a dog?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Is it a spotty dog? I like spotty dogs."

"I don't know, it might be. You'll see tomorrow." She crossed to the phone and dialled Dean's number. It rang out. Tension hunched her shoulders as she returned the phone to its cradle. She moved to the window. The street was dark. Her attention jerked to twin headlight beams and the throaty, drone of the Chevy Impala. She released her breath. "Tara, go to bed."

"But."

"Now."

"Yes maam." The child retreated, her head hanging low. Missouri felt a twinge of concern, but the sound of a car door slamming brought her focus back to Dean. She met him at the porch and any will she had held to berate him died as she saw his face. He looked tired, worn, his arm still in a sling and his eyes bright with moisture. Her knees weakened and she clutched at the doorframe. Her heart thudded hard in her chest. She could not bring herself to read him, but she knew it involved Sam. The boy had been doing so well… had something gone wrong?

He bowed his head and she looked down, tracked his gaze to the soft toy he held in his uninjured hand. Boris, Tara's stuffed animal, the fabric dirtied and stained. She struggled for a minute, then she realised where he had been. She caught her breath, relieved that her worst fears were unfounded, but concerned nonetheless. "Oh, honey, you should have said something. I would have gone with you."

"Can you wash it?"

She ignored the question, instead gently probing him, reading him. When satisfied that exhaustion and sadness were the only emotions that wearied him, she responded. "I can try."

"Tara really loves this thing."

"You had noticed?"

"Hard not to," he said with a wry smile.

"But you didn't go back to that warehouse just for the toy?"

He straightened his shoulders and sniffed. "No, I went to find clues. I figured that exorcising the entity might have left some indication as to where it had come from."

"Did it?"

"No."

"Are you alright?"

He nodded, not quite meeting her eyes. She watched him a moment longer, trying to judge whether she needed to push this.

"It's okay, Missouri. It shook me up a bit, is all." He fingered the toy, the blood stained head and body. "Do you think you can get it clean?"

"I'm not sure, but the girl is pining for it so I'll try."

Dean swallowed hard, his focus on the crusted blackened stains that had leached into the fabric. "Thanks," he said, coughing lightly to clear his throat, "for everything."

"You don't need to thank me, sweetie. You know that."

He glanced at her, his eyes moist, then managed a small smile. "Can you take this now?"

"Yes, of course."

She took the toy from him, tucked it behind her so he would no longer see the blood stains. "How's Sam?"

"He's doing good." He glanced up at the night sky and massaged the back of his neck.

"You sore?"

"Nah, it's nothing."

Missouri nodded, not believing him for a moment. She waited as he climbed the steps, then touched his shoulder and slipped her hand down the back of his neck. He flinched and tried to draw away. She rebuked him with a cluck of her tongue and he reluctantly stilled. She felt the rigid tension in his neck, across his broad shoulders. She withdrew. "Is he still in good spirits?"

"Yeah, pretty good considering."

"And his hand?"

Dean's expression soured. He took a moment to respond. "He's convinced that he will regain full function."

"That's good."

"He's in denial."

"We talked about this, Dean. Sometimes will alone can achieve what might otherwise seem impossible. Don't take that from him, especially not now."

"No, I won't. But wouldn't it be better for him to have at least an edge of reality."

"Sam doesn't have the emotional capacity at the moment to manage shades of grey. You saw how he reacted when the doctor first told him about it. He could not handle it, and this is his way of coping. Don't take it from him. It would be catastrophic."

"He's going to find out eventually."

She swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. "Maybe, but for now he needs this. Trust me. This is the best way." She led him inside, into the living room. "Did Doctor Archibald give any indication of when he might be being released?"

"Mid next week."

"That soon. It will only have been two weeks."

"It's all the milk I made him drink when we were kids. He's got good bones," Dean quipped, then added. "Anyway, he's already going stir crazy. Doctor Archibald thinks he'll do better in a home environment, as long as he follows instructions and doesn't try to weight bear too early."

"So I'd best be getting busy then, if he'll be here in five days." At his bemused look, she added, "I'm converting this room into a bedroom for you and Sam. It's close to the downstairs amenities, and it's the largest room down here."

"But—"

"He can't be alone, Dean."

"No, I don't want him to, but isn't that going to be disruptive. I mean, you have people over and all."

"Let me worry about whether it's disruptive."

"But we'll have to get the beds down the stairs."

"Yes, I had considered that."

"I'd need some help," he finally said, his brow knitted in concentration, "but I think we could make it work."

"Really. You think?" she whacked him lightly. "Boys, they think they're invincible. I have a few friends lined up, Dean. You go and stay with Sam and work out with the physiotherapist and his doctor about what he will need and then you come right back here and you tell me. If I catch you lifting anything heavier than your brother's overnight bag, I will break your other arm." She smiled as he grumbled. "Sit, I've got something for you."

"I'm beat, can't it wait?"

"No."

He sighed, trudged over to the sofa and sat down. His hand again drew to his neck and he gently stretched, closing his eyes, his features drawn into a tight wince. She left the room, collected a bitter smelling balm from the back room, diverted by the utility room and tucked Boris onto a high shelf beside the clothes dryer, out of an eight year old's reach. She returned to the living room and found Dean waiting. His eyes narrowed as he saw her carrying a small jar. "What's that?"

"Shush, strip off that jacket and shirt."

"You're not putting anything gloopy on me."

"Yes I am."

"Nuh uh."

"Dean." She lifted one hand to her hip and tipped her head forward. He wilted, awkwardly removed his clothing to favour his injured arm and sank heavily into the chair. She checked the bruises along his side, on his arm and shoulder.

"The doctor checked them when I was released."

"I know that honey, but I'm checking them again now."

She ignored the deliberate roll of his eyes and completed her examination, choosing to apply the balm to the unmarred skin at the back of his neck and across his shoulders. She started with gentle smooth strokes, then worked deeper into the muscle and through each of the knots. Only once he was relaxed, did she apply some to the heavy bruising along his bicep, to just above his elbow where the bandaging ended. He tensed, but she was deliberately gentle and soon he again relaxed. When she finally finished up, he was drooping slightly, his eyelids heavy. And he smelled something awful. She tucked a finger under his chin and prompted him to lift his head. "I can't carry you to your room, you're going to have to walk."

"I stink."

"Yes you do. But you will sleep like a baby."

"A skunk baby."

She chuckled. "Most likely."

"Don't tell Sam, he'll torment me for weeks," he said sleepily.

"Oh, don't you worry, I have plenty of things planned for that boy. Smelling like a skunk will be the least of his concerns," she said it lightly, without thought.

"Good. Make him smell really bad. Make him suffer," Dean murmured, his words teasing and devoid of any intent.

Missouri stiffened, the smile dying on her lips. "Go to bed, Dean. I'll see you in the morning." She turned away, capped the small jar and returned to the back room. Her gaze lingered on a rectangular brown package tucked at the back of the shelf. The small box belonged there, its power to heal unmatched by the potions and balms that surrounded it. It was a blessing, a unique gift. Hard to locate and nearly impossible to obtain. But her hand shook as she placed the soothing balm before it, deliberately blocking it from view. For now she could ignore it, but soon she would have to let Sam decide.

**

* * *

End Chapter Thirteen**


	14. Chapter 14

**ENTITY (Chapter Fourteen)**

From Chapter Thirteen:

"_A skunk baby."_

_She chuckled. "Most likely."_

"_Don't tell Sam, he'll torment me for weeks," he said sleepily._

"_Oh, don't you worry, I have plenty of things planned for that boy. Smelling like a skunk will be the least of his concerns," she said it lightly, without thought._

"_Good. Make him smell really bad. Make him suffer," Dean murmured, his words teasing and devoid of any intent._

_Missouri stiffened, the smile dying on her lips. "Go to bed, Dean. I'll see you in the morning." She turned away, capped the small jar and returned to the back room. Her gaze lingered on a rectangular brown package tucked at the back of the shelf. The small box belonged there, its power to heal unmatched by the potions and balms that surrounded it. It was a blessing, a unique gift. Hard to locate and nearly impossible to obtain. But her hand shook as she placed the soothing balm before it, deliberately blocking it from view. For now she could ignore it, but soon she would have to let Sam decide._

**

* * *

Chapter Fourteen**

Clothes lay folded on a dresser by the door, a makeshift wardrobe beside it and several bags tucked under the chair between it and the window. Sunlight streamed in through the open shutters, lighting dust particles that danced and weaved in the mid afternoon air. Sam's wheelchair, now parked under the window, glinted, slivers of reflected light scooping further into the room. One beam made it as far as Sam and he looked down at it, momentarily transfixed by the oval circle of light, one shallow loop on his left sock clad foot and the other folded into the carpet beneath it.

"Honey, you should have called me. I didn't realise you were awake."

Sam's gaze lifted to the stout black woman who stood in the doorway, she held a towel in one hand and a book in the other. The teasing scent of baked apple and cinnamon wafted down the hall.

"Where's Dean?"

"I sent him out for milk and sugar. He won't be long. Would you like to join us for tea and apple muffins?"

Sam's attention shifted to the window as he considered the invitation. For just over a week he had been at Missouri's home, coddled by the aging psychic and watched like a hawk by his brother. For most of that Sam had been too wearied by the daily physiotherapy sessions, the exercises, the medication and the constant pain to be bothered by the fact that every move, every bodily function, almost every single thought, was monitored, assessed and responded to by others. But as he had slowly gained ground, he had grown increasingly frustrated by his own ineptitude – and tired of the constant mothering. And now, over three weeks since the entity had tossed him around the warehouse like a toy, Sam had had enough. It had to stop. And that shiny wheelchair would be the first thing to go.

"That'd be nice," he finally responded.

"Give me a minute to clean off my hands and I'll get you your chair."

"No, it's okay, I can manage."

"It's no trouble, honey."

"I know." He said a touch too harshly. He drew in a breath and forced a smile. "It's okay, I can manage." She frowned and studied him, then glanced toward the door, to where Dean would appear. "Go back to your cooking, Missouri. I'm fine," he added, thrusting down the itch of frustration that needled through him.

"Sam, I'm not sure."

He carefully stood, ignoring her. He balanced on one leg, reaching out with his right hand to steady himself against the wall. He eyed the crutches that stood across the other side of the room. Between them and he lay two beds, his and his brother's. His own ruffled and over-used, Dean's neatly made. On the floor lay a pair of Dean's shoes, a towel that the older boy had tossed to the bed and missed, and a clothes hamper brimming with dirty laundry. He knew that would soon disappear. Missouri magic, she had said with a smile. Aside from doing their laundry, cooking their meals and generally playing nurse, Missouri left them to their own devices.

He glanced at her, saw her watching him, her dark face furrowed with concern. "You could bring them over," he suggested meekly, all too aware that his enthusiastic run for independence had just hit a pot-hole.

"Of course."

She moved quickly, snagged the crutches and presented them before him. Then she waited, hovering as he tucked them under his armpits and settled his weight. They dug in, tight into the pockets under his shoulders. Already uncomfortable. The fingers of his right hand nudged around the grip, he moved his left hand into place and careened right into the second obstacle, not a pot-hole this time, but instead a huge ditch. Irritation slithered through him as he struggled to get his recalcitrant fingers to lock into place. He exhaled heavily and looked toward the window, past Missouri and the knowing tenseness of her body as she waited beside him.

"I'm not going back to the chair," he bit out suddenly. She remained silent and he felt like a toddler having its first tantrum. Keys in the door alerted him to Dean's return. "Great," he muttered sarcastically, ignoring Missouri's look.

Dean stepped into the room, tossed his keys on the bed and shrugged out of his jacket. He regarded them both, then lightly lifted the bag. "Kitchen?" he asked Missouri, requesting direction on where to deposit the groceries.

"That would be lovely. Thank you."

Sam averted his gaze, aware as his brother hesitated before leaving the room. He grit his teeth and swung himself forward, momentarily entirely reliant on the thin metal poles and uncomfortable pads. Pain shot through his left palm and he twisted, landing awkwardly, his left leg and hip jarred as he fought to regain his balance. "Shit," he cursed as sharp pain spun through his left side. He hopped, momentarily panicked as he felt himself falling. Missouri caught him and she grunted as his six foot four frame came to rest against her much shorter stature. He breathed heavily, head down, tears burning. He felt like an ass, embarrassed, frustrated and longing for some way to blast the shit out of the shadowy bastard that had done this to him.

"Dean," Missouri called.

"I'm okay," he said weakly.

"No you're not, honey. Don't move."

"Dude," Dean said as he came back into the room. His voice was deliberately light, "what have I told you about trying your shonky moves on Missouri. She's not into you, little brother. It's that hair. Too much of it. It's freaking her out."

Sam huffed as Dean nudged Missouri away and grasped his arms firmly. Sam clutched at his brother, careful to avoid the older man's still bandaged arm. "This is getting fucking old, Dean," he whispered. "I can't even use the crutches. I can't even take a piss without a chaperone."

"You can, you just need help to get there."

"Semantics."

"So, what exactly are we doing? The Waltz, Tango, Macarena?"

"Funny."

"Seriously, Sam, you're no lightweight. Are we moving or do you want to sit back down?"

"Not the wheelchair."

"I'm not carrying your ass."

Sam drew back. He breathed hard and squinted at the wheelchair. It leered at him. Mocked him. He tore his gaze away and found Dean watching him closely. "What are you looking at?"

Dean's eyebrows rose. "Did you take those pain meds I gave you?"

"Yes Florence, I took them."

"Good. Just checking."

He rolled his eyes, once again settling on the damned wheelchair. He sagged, giving in. "Get me the chair," he said wearily.

Missouri brought it over, the thin steel wheels squeaking. Dean helped Sam to settle into it and then drew back. An awkward silence descended, then Dean turned on his heel and strode to the door.

"Tea and muffins," Dean started with forced cheeriness and a hideous imitation of a British dialect. "Jolly good then chaps, let's be getting at that, shall we. Righty ho. Off we go."

Sam smiled, more at Missouri's aghast expression than his brother's shocking massacre of the plumb in the mouth accent. She cast another appraising glance at Sam before she followed the older boy. Dean continued mouthing off all the way down the hall.

Sam's smile faded. He regarded his left hand, the thin bandages that wrapped around the wound through his palm. His fingers were bare, the heavy wrapping had been removed, replaced with thinner gauze that allowed movement. Except Sam could not move the fingers, could barely get the appendage to respond to any neural commands. And though pain had speared through his palm when he had placed weight on it, his middle two fingers were numb. His thumb and remaining two fingers had fared a little better, he could wiggle them, though being sure that he had a solid grasp of an object was proving harder to manage due to a significant loss of sensation.

He had long given up believing that it would improve. Unlike his leg which was improving by the day, and his pelvis which was almost fully healed, the level of flexibility and sensation in his hand was decreasing. Doctor Archibald's prognosis of claw hand was becoming a reality.

"Dude, get your ass in here before I eat it all."

Sam flinched, broken from his morbid reverie by Dean's shout. He heard Missouri rebuke the older boy a moment later. He reluctantly joined them, slowly wheeling his squealing and greatly loathed apparatus down the hall. He found Missouri and Dean seated at the dining table. Tea and muffins in a spread before them. He chose a chair and manoeuvred himself into it.

"Things must be going well with the Harrison's?" he started, keen to deflect attention away from himself.

"Tara?" Missouri clarified.

"She's not here is she?"

"No, but don't be speaking too soon. That child made such a mess of things with the Martins. Clear annoyed their dog to distraction, then started on their toddler. That might have all been tolerated if not for her continual hammering on about that damned toy. If she does the same thing with the Harrison's then she'll be back here. I'm running out of options for her. She needs an understanding home, someone who will be open to her psychic abilities. But she's not making things very easy on me and I don't have an unlimited amount of time before she will have to go into the public system."

Sam frowned, confused, his attention caught on only one thing that Missouri had said. "The toy? You mean Boris." He flicked his gaze between his brother and Missouri, suddenly aware that something was going on that he had not been made aware of. He struggled to remember where he had last seen the stuffed animal, then it hit him. The warehouse.

"Sam," Dean started.

"Is the toy still back at the warehouse?" As soon as he asked the question, he knew the answer. His lips parted, he cocked his head to the side. "It's not, then where is it?"

"Honey, you don't have to worry about this."

He ignored Missouri and scanned to Dean. The older boy looked decidedly uncomfortable, pale even. Sam's anxiety notched up. "What's going on?"

Missouri answered. "I left the toy back there after… after everything. I took Tara and left."

"So the toy is still out there. We can go and get it."

"No, we have it, but it's heavily stained. It can't be given to the girl. I have tried almost every detergent and chemical on the market to get it clean."

"Stained," Sam breathed. Dean winced and Sam finally understood. "Oh," he breathed, unease and disgust prompting a shiver to trace the length of his spine. "Nice."

"I'm still trying," Missouri said, "I'm not sure there will be much left of the damned thing once I've tried all options, but I'm not going to give in."

"Does she know you have it?"

"No. She's persistently searched for it the few times she has been here so I've passed it to a dry-cleaner friend. The last thing that child needs is to see it. And, my friend knows someone in the business who is going to try a few industrial strength alternatives."

Sam could not help but wonder if keeping the toy away from the house had also been to keep it away from him. He swallowed hard, unsure of how he would cope with seeing the stuffed animal stained with his own blood. He straightened, needing to shift the conversation onto lighter ground. "So the dog was not afraid of her?"

"No, aside from dressing it is the toddler's clothes, decorating its tail with ribbons and trying to ride around on it, it was fine."

"Sounds like she was having fun."

"She was, unfortunately the dog wasn't and neither was the rest of the family."

"Was she really that much of a nuisance?"

Missouri sighed. "Apparently so."

Sam glanced at his brother, slightly taken aback to see the older boy stuff an entire muffin into his mouth. Dean looked up and grinned goofily. Shaking his head, Sam looked back at Missouri, noting with some relief that the black woman had not noticed his brother's antics.

"Do the Harrison's have a dog?" Sam asked.

"No, two cats."

"That could be interesting."

"Yes. I'm expecting it will be."

"Aside from tormenting people's pets, how is she doing? I mean, psychologically."

"Once she gets over Boris, things will be fine."

Sam nodded, his attention unwillingly caught by the oversized two year old who sat opposite him. Dean grinned suddenly, revealing a display of thick muffin goo plastered to his teeth and the inside of his lips. "Gross," Sam muttered, unable to withhold a chuckle as Missouri finally noticed.

"Dean Winchester. I know for a fact that your father taught you better manners than that. You behave, or I'll get my wooden spoon."

"What?" Dean pressed his lips together and widened his eyes in a classic _who me_ pose.

Sam retrieved a muffin of his own. He placed it on his plate and then toyed with it. Gradually picking off crumbs before he eventually took a bite. He realised then that it was sort of gooey, clearly muffins were not Missouri's speciality. He met Dean's eyes and the older boy grinned, once more revealing the muffin mixture caught between his teeth. Sam glanced at Missouri, chewed a few times then bared his lips at his brother. Dean's eyes widened, then he sucked back a laugh, covering his mouth with his hand. Sam adopted an innocent expression as Missouri eyed them both.

"Mice mffnz," Dean mispronounced. Sam covered his mouth, blocking the response that would have resulted in Missouri being peppered with partially chewed muffin pieces.

It predictably went downhill from there. After several minutes, Missouri removed herself from the table, threw them a feigned disapproving look and left them to it.

"These things are really bad," Sam said quietly. "So was that casserole she made the other night. And that cake thing yesterday. What was that meant to be anyway?"

"Chocolate mousse."

"Shouldn't it have been a bit… moussier?"

Dean smiled thinly, then cast an appraising eye toward Sam. "You're no chef yourself, bro. So what's with the sudden critiquing?"

Sam leaned back, ruffled that his attempted banter had been cut short. "No reason."

"Missouri is doing us a favor, Sam. She saved our lives."

"I know. Just drop it."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, of course."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "No you're not. What's going on?"

Sam exhaled heavily. "This. All of this. I'm sick of it."

"This is the apple pie life you want, Sammy. Live it and enjoy it. It'll be over all too soon."

"Maybe not." He risked a glance at his brother then averted his gaze. It unwillingly drew back to his hand. He had rested it on the table, but had not used it.

"What does that mean?" Dean paused, then his tone took a harder edge. "Are you using that squeeze ball I gave you?"

"It makes no difference."

"It will. You have to keep trying."

"Dean, enough with the pep talks. It's not working. It's never going to work."

"Pessimism does not become you, little brother."

"Come here." He waved his brother toward him. "Now."

Dean shifted closer then waited, his hazel-green eyes wary. Sam held out his hand. "Touch it."

"Sam."

"Touch it, try to move the fingers, Dean."

The older boy swallowed hard, looking almost like a cornered animal. His fingers twitched but he made no effort to touch Sam's hand. Angered, Sam scanned the table, deftly retrieved a carving knife that lay on one side, then cleanly sliced it across his two middle fingers. Blood welled immediately and Dean blanched.

"Sam, what the hell—"

"I can't feel it, Dean. Nothing. They're numb. Always will be." He dumped the knife with a clatter, wincing as Dean caught his hand and placed pressure on the thin slices. The action jarred his palm, the only part of his hand that did respond to pain. He bit back a soft gasp as Dean glowered at him.

"Of all the stupid, melodramatic, idiotic things to do."

"Do you get it now?"

"I get something, Sam, but I'm not sure it's what you want me to get." He grabbed a napkin and folded it over the cuts. "Hold this. I'll get the first aid kit."

"They're just shallow cuts, Dean. I wasn't trying to cut off my fingers."

"You know what, I don't know what you were trying to do. But those will need disinfecting and bandaging. Your system can't deal with infection right now, you ass. Or are you self-destructing as well as practising your drama queen skills?"

Sam swallowed hard, realising that the possible consequences of his actions. "I just wanted you to understand," he said weakly.

"I understand that you're an idiot."

Maybe he was, but as Sam sat waiting for his brother to return, the napkins slowly soaking through with blood from a wound he could not feel, he realised that Dean was not accepting that things had changed. The older boy was in denial about the extent of Sam's injury, and about what that meant for them. He had to set his brother straight.

"I'm going to go back to school once I'm well enough to walk," Sam said softly after Dean had returned and was bandaging his hand.

Dean stilled. Sam saw a glimpse of his brother's darkened gaze before the older man shifted, turning so that his face was hidden.

Sam continued. "I can't hunt like this."

"You could."

"I don't want to."

"You haven't tried."

"I can't feel my fingers. I can't handle a weapon. I can't load a shotgun. I can't react fast enough. I'm a liability."

Dean stopped then and faced Sam head on. "You are not a liability, Sam. This would not make you a liability. You would adapt. We would adapt."

He knew his brother was right, he would adapt. It was only a hand. But it would make things harder, make Dean even more protective. All the ground Sam had gained with his sibling would be effectively lost. Never to be regained. They would never be equals, not in the heat of battle at least. And one day, Dean would sacrifice too much. He would be too slow. Too preoccupied with watching Sam's ass. He held his brother's gaze and knew Dean saw that too.

"You've made up your mind," Dean ground out and his tone was cold, harsh, unforgiving.

Sam took a moment to respond, then said, "Yes."

Dean nodded tightly. He finished off the dressing and packed up the kit. The silence was heavy and awkward and Sam ached. Physically and mentally. He lacked the strength for this. The fortitude he needed to turn his back on his brother. Though he had made the decision, he wanted Dean to fight for him, to offer him a way back, a choice. But Dean did not. He accepted it with a stiffening of his shoulders and a shuttering of his emotions. Dean in. Sam out. It had happened so quickly that Sam was left reeling.

"I have no choice," he whispered.

"You always have a choice, Sam. It's how you go about choosing that makes the difference."

Dean left him alone with the gooey muffins, the cooling tea and his miserable thoughts. Even Missouri did not return. Maybe she had overheard his rudeness, his lack of appreciation. Sam shuffled back to the wheelchair, dumped himself into it with a pained gasp and slowly returned to their room. He did not really expect to find his brother there, but it still hurt when he was proven right. Dean had probably gone upstairs. Somewhere Sam could not go, but he made no attempt to confirm that.

Several hours later, Dean returned. Sam sat in front of the television, mindlessly watching. He was half asleep, his body aching with pain that he lacked the strength to respond to.

"Hey," Dean said softly. He started, unaware that Dean had moved to his side and crouched down. The older boy pressed the back of his hand against Sam's forehead. It was a tender gesture that took him back to when all this had started. The café in Bridgeport Nebraska when Dean had found him after he had experienced the first vision, the first onset of the pain. Sam closed his eyes, his breath hitching on the memory.

Dean withdrew. "You're not running a fever and you're not due for your meds for another two hours. Missouri is cooking, you going to join us or eat in here?"

He blinked and looked up at his brother. Dean moved back a little, but his eyes held concern. Always the big brother, Sam thought, even when he had just admitted he was going to walk out on him, an equivalent to a swift kick in the balls. Dean had taken it, gone away and licked his wounds then come back for more. Sam averted his gaze, his throat constricted. "I'll come out," he managed.

"It's casserole."

"It better not be tuna."

"Beef."

"Okay."

Dean stood. "It will be a while yet. You should sleep. I'll wake you when it's ready." He left then, and Sam again found himself alone with the mindless television and wandering thoughts. He eventually hauled his aching body out of the chair and shuffle-hopped across to the bed. He collapsed onto it, panting hard. He lay there for several minutes before he twisted, leaned over and snagged his bag. Tucked inside was the yellow squeeze ball with the face Dean had drawn onto it in permanent marker. The older boy had teased and told Sam to think of him when he worked with it. All that pent up rage, he had said. It was a reference to the incident at the asylum and it was meant to be a joke, but it had still stung more than it should.

As he lay back on the bed, the yellow ball in his left hand, he imagined the entity. Imagined at it had a face, features, something he could hold onto, something he could form an image of in his mind. When he had it in place, he directed all that anger and hatred to his hand, to making the fingers work, to regaining the function. Soon, his forearm ached, his palm burned and blood slicked across the yellow rubber from the cuts through his fingers. Still, he kept going, his eyes closed and jaw clenched. But sometime later his exhausted body could fight no more and he gave in to the pull of sleep. The ball in one hand – fear, uncertainty and loss riding him down.

He woke later to find Dean beside him, his brother's face lit by the television, the yellow ball in his hand. The elder hunter stared down at it, fingered the bloodied stains and his eyes held a dark sadness that twisted through Sam. Dean looked up and their eyes held for a long moment but no words were spoken. Instead, uncertainty, responsibility and resentment moved back and forth between them. Sam looked away first and when he looked back, Dean's expression was once again neutral. His shifting emotions hidden, shuttered away, locked down.

"Dinner is on," Dean said. "You want to try the crutches?"

"I can't."

"I can help. We can make it work if you want to give it a try."

Sam felt an up welling of an emotion he did not recognise. He nodded, the strange sensation passing as Dean offered him a hand and pulled him up. He saw the crutches then, leaning against the bed, within reach. He snagged them and tucked them under his arms. "I can't put weight on my palm."

"You don't need to. Control the swing from your armpit, not your hand. Here, like this."

Ten minutes later, Sam was navigating his way down the hall on the crutches, his brother at his side and a guiding hand at the small of his back. He felt that strange emotion again, the one that he now recognised as being acceptance without pity. His earlier anger and frustration at being coddled, treated like a child, vanished because he now understood it. Neither Dean nor Missouri saw him as a burden, grew tired of his needs, his helplessness, the times that they had sat with him because he was in too much pain to sleep. The infuriating way Dean had never let him win at Nintendo despite Sam's inability to handle the controls properly. The respect they offered him truly made him feel humbled.

At the dining table, a spread of home-cooked food before him, his brother at his side and a woman who was as close to a mother as he had ever had before him, Sam realised that Dean was right. This was the apple pie life that he had longed for. Right here. But it no longer meant jack-shit. He could no longer hunt side by side with his brother as an equal, and to be anything less was unacceptable. Anything less would lead to Dean sacrificing more than he could give. He overtly watched his brother, the shortened stubble of new growth at the back of his head, the heavy bandaging on his right arm, the darkened shadows under his eyes.

Sam looked down, overcome by the bitter cruelty of the situation. The entity had given he and his brother a taste of the apple-pie life they had never had, and at the same time it had left them both without a means by which to hold on to it.

* * *

**End Chapter Fourteen**


	15. Chapter 15

**ENTITY (Chapter Fifteen)**

From Chapter Fourteen:

_At the dining table, a spread of home-cooked food before him, his brother at his side and a woman who was as close to a mother as he had ever had before him, Sam realized that Dean was right. This was the apple pie life that he had longed for. Right here. But it no longer meant jack-shit. He could no longer hunt side by side with his brother as an equal, and to be anything less was unacceptable. Anything less would lead to Dean sacrificing more than he could give. He overtly watched his brother, the shortened stubble of new growth at the back of his head, the heavy bandaging on his right arm, the darkened shadows under his eyes._

_Sam looked down, overcome by the bitter cruelty of the situation. The entity had given he and his brother a taste of the apple-pie life they had never had, and at the same time it had left them both without a means by which to hold on to it._

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

Steam rose from the newly brewed cup of tea on the table before Missouri. She touched the handle then drew back as she heard soft footsteps pad down the hall to the kitchen door. The eldest Winchester boy appeared a moment later. He blinked against the light and scrubbed a hand across his face, rubbing at his eyes as though to erase the dark charcoal smudges that lay beneath them. He moved to his hair next, self-consciously teasing the flattened strands before he let his hand fall away.

"You're up early," he commented around a barely suppressed yawn.

"So are you."

"Yeah, well, Sam snores. Loud. Non stop. Like a freakin' freight train. If I stay in there a minute longer I'll throttle him." He moved into the room, retrieved a glass from the cabinet and half filled it with water before quickly downing some pills. He joined her at the table and slumped heavily into a chair.

"What's your excuse for sitting out here?" he asked as he slid his arms across the table and pillowed his head on his uninjured forearm. He held that pose for only a moment before he straightened and stretched, wincing as he moved.

"I couldn't sleep," she admitted, "and your brother's snoring is nothing new. So I'm assuming that you're here for the same reason as I."

"I'm not worried about Sam."

"I didn't say that you were."

"Oh. Well, he's fine. Snoring."

"So you've said."

He eyed the steaming pot beside Missouri's cup. "That water or tea?"

"Water."

"Can I—"

"Boy, you know you don't need to ask for permission. I've told you a dozen times, this is your home for as long as you and Sam want it to be, and then some. Go, make yourself a coffee. You know where everything is."

Dean ducked his head, grumbled then pushed up from the table. She deliberately studied her own cup of tea until he returned and then waited until he had taken a sip.

"Dean, I know you're encouraging Sam to regain function in his hand."

"That's what you told me to do," he replied edgily.

"Yes, it was. And I feel it was the right thing to do. It got him through the worst part, but now that he's getting stronger he needs a different approach. I'd like to spend some time alone with him today."

He watched her intently, his hazel-green eyes scouring hers. He finally looked away and released a tense breath. "Should I even bother asking what you'll be doing with him?"

"No."

Dean nodded, his shoulders weighted and features drawn. He averted his gaze from hers and stared down at the coffee cup. His long fingers wrapped around it, seeking warmth, comfort. "He wants to go back to school. Can you talk some sense into him or something?"

"I can't make his decisions for him."

"His hand won't stop him from hunting."

"No, it wouldn't."

"He's safer with me than at school."

She had no doubt about but did not comment, ultimately it was Sam's decision and she would not influence it. She did, however, need an answer of her own.

"Dean, last night you told me that Sam had deliberately cut himself." She saw the young man flinch, and she took a breath before continuing. "You've told me why he did it, but I need more." She paused again, disliking the hunch to his shoulders, the lines of pain on his face. She had to remind herself that Sam was not the only one who had almost died, who was suffering. She softened her tone. "Dean, I trust you to tell me if there's something wrong. You said that he was making a point, but it's a disturbing way for him to have made it. Are you sure that is all it was?"

"Yes." He raised his head, his expression determined. "I know him, Missouri. I can read him better than you can, even with that whole psychic thing you've got going on. He's hurting and confused, that's it. Nothing more."

She scanned his eyes, lightly reading him despite the assuredness of his words. She searched for any hint of doubt, denial or fear. She found none. "Okay," she relented. "Let me spend some time with him and we'll go from there." She touched his hand. "It will be alright, honey. You'll see."

Four hours later, Dean stood at the front door, keys in hand, his already suspicious brother hindering his neat exit from the house.

"Toy shopping," Dean said with a wide grin. "Tara needs a new Boris and I'm the man for the job."

"Toy shopping," Sam said as he rested on his crutches. He huffed and cocked his head to the side. "Dude, are you feeling okay?" His eyes widened suddenly and he leaned forward. "Tell me you're not packing, Dean. You can't take a gun into Toys-R-Us."

"Give me some credit, Sammy. I've just got the knife."

"Dean."

The elder boy laughed, winked at Missouri then swung the door closed. Sam stood there a moment, before he turned and forced an apprehensive smile. "You want to talk to me," he said, "and you've sent Dean out so we can be alone."

"Yes."

His shoulders stooped as he nodded. "You know he hates toy stores. All those wind up mechanical monkeys, dead-eyed dolls, psycho battery operated robot dogs. He thinks they're all possessed. If he decapitates Barbie—"

"He's not going to decapitate Barbie," Missouri said, though she did cast a wary glance at the now closed door. "Dean left you some breakfast. How about we have something to eat and then we'll talk."

"You know, I'm not so hungry."

"Honey, if you don't eat we won't talk."

"That could be a good thing."

"Sam, you have nothing to worry about. Now let's eat, then we'll sit outside and enjoy this beautiful day." She gently nudged him forward, staying just behind as he slowly moved down the hall.

"Chucky was a toy," he said as they reached the kitchen. "I bet Dean takes the EMF. It could get really ugly, I think—"

"Stop fretting about your brother, boy. What harm can he do in a toy store?"

"Oh man, you do not want to know."

Missouri shook her head in feigned consternation and gestured to the dining table. "Sit, and forget about Dean."

He exhaled heavily. "He had better not have skulled the last of the apple juice."

Missouri smiled, fully aware that the older boy had drained all of the juice, both the apple and the orange, which left Sam with milk, water or beer. And the boy was not going to be getting any alcohol any time soon, so she retrieved the container of milk and waited for the grizzling to begin.

An hour later, Sam followed her outside, his head down and lips tightly pursed. He moved with a deliberate unease, as though being marched to his execution. He kept his head down, the dark locks almost hiding his eyes and his actions stiff and resistant. He chose the wicker chair closest to the outer railing, easing himself onto the plush cushions with a grimace. He placed the crutches beside him then warily looked around. His sharp gaze scanned the dappled light, searched deep into the shadows, the crisp air seeming to unsettle him, exacerbate the unease.

She settled into the chair closest to him. He glanced at her then looked away, his eyes once again scanning. The morning air that lightened Missouri's heavy spirit, seemed to add weight to his. Gentle tinkling beside him caused him to start. His head whipped to the right, a soft exhalation escaping his parted lips as he took in the aluminium wind-chime suspended from the veranda beam beside him.

"You're safe here, Sam," she said softly. "Protection spells bind the whole property, Angelica and Fennel grow in the garden at all four corners and along each boundary, and there's a continual line of salt around the perimeter, secure and weather proof. I check it daily. Nothing can get in here."

"Yeah, I know," he breathed.

She waited a moment then asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Your leg is okay?"

"It's good."

"Still sore though?"

"It'll get better."

"Yes, it will." She looked down at his left hand. He rested it in his lap with the fingers loosely curled inwards, a thin bandage around the palm. The self-inflicted slices through his two middle fingers were obvious though evidently superficial and already healing. She swallowed hard, disturbed that he had done that but trusting Dean's judgement about the underlying motivation. "Can I see your hand?"

He frowned, seemed to consider denying her request then held it forward. She gently unwound the bandages from his palm. The wounds inflicted by the entity had closed, leaving an ugly slash through the flesh and several smaller lines that ran the length of his middle two fingers. His thumb, forefinger and little finger had mostly escaped injury.

"Can you form a fist?"

He drew in a sharp breath, briefly glanced at her then looked down. She waited as he struggled to move his hand, the fingers moved a little, curled inward before they stilled. He released his breath and pained frustration marred his features.

She lightly traced the scar across his palm. "Can you feel this?"

"Hmm."

"What's it feel like?"

"Raw and burning."

She nodded, encouraged. "And your fingers, can you feel them?"

"Not the middle two."

"They're numb?"

Sam nodded and he again looked away, his eyes hooded. She patted his forearm and released him. He did not immediately reapply the bandage instead he stared down at the injury. "I never wanted this," he quietly admitted. "I wanted a way out of hunting, but not like this. And not now. I don't want to live like this forever, but… it's not over, Missouri. Mom, Jess, Max, now this. It's like something is happening that is bigger than all of us. Bigger than Dean and I. I don't think I can just walk away."

"Then why have you told Dean that you're going back to school?"

"Because I can't stay with him." His expression twisted and Missouri saw the hint of tears. He sniffed and coached them back. "I won't let Dean be hurt because I can't protect him. Or worse, because I can't protect myself."

She understood the lengths Sam had gone to in an effort to keep his brother safe, the very injury that now threatened to tear the brother's apart had been sustained while Sam had been trying to protect Dean. It was obvious that the younger boy would see that injury as a reminder of his failure and the potential for future failures. But she did not know if it went deeper than that.

"If you had been able to recover fully, no permanent impairment, would you still want to go back to school?" she asked.

He looked at her, his lips parted. He cocked his head to the side, his expression quizzically pained.

"You suffered an incredible trauma, Sam. Physically and psychologically. Even without the hand—"

"No. All of this… I can't even… but it's not over. It's not done."

"Then how can you walk away? How can you when you know that it's not over."

"Because if he's not with me, he has a chance."

"And you? Without him, do _you_ have a chance?"

He looked away, sniffed and drew his arms around himself. Missouri suddenly felt physically ill, sickened at the burden that the young man before her carried and the choices he now made. She had already twice witnessed what the supernatural could do to Sam. Both times Dean had given his brother a chance. But on his own….

"Sam, I can heal your hand." It came out rushed, awkward, not at all how she had planned.

He turned to her, his eyes narrowed. "What?"

"I can heal you. But it's a little… complicated."

"How? What do you mean?"

"I have a poultice that I can apply to your hand. You would need to keep it on for twenty-four hours during which time the nerve fibres and tendons would regenerate. It would be a further few weeks before the process would be complete." She smiled but won only a slight tilt of his head as he stared at her, his jaw slack. She swallowed and continued. "You would regain full function. It will be as though you were never hurt."

He closed his mouth and narrowed his gaze. He watched her closely. "What's the catch?"

"There isn't one."

"Yes there is. There always is."

"Not this time, sweetie. This one is guilt free."

His blue-green eyes suddenly sparkled with anger. "No, there is no such thing as guilt free." Rage simmered and shifted, darkening his expression with a sudden intensity that she did not recognise. He pushed up, crying out as he momentarily took his weight on his injured leg. She reached for him, but he caught himself, snagged the crutches and shied away from her. He clenched his jaw and poised to move.

"There is no catch, Sam. I promise."

"No. You just don't know what it is but you will and then it will be too late. You won't be able to change it and you will carry that burden forever. You don't want that, Missouri. I promise you, you don't want that."

She glanced toward the rear of the house, regretting having sent Dean away. The older boy had an ability to manage his brother, handle the younger hunter's volatile emotions. John's youngest son wore his heart on his sleeve, his emotions bared… but the intensity and shifts had caught her off guard. She wet her lips. "Sam, sit down."

His pained gaze searched then the barest thread of blind terror sparked in his eyes. "Oh God, you know. You know why this would work. What deal have you made?" He shuddered then and his features twisted with a pain she could barely stomach to witness. "What have you traded for me, Missouri? What have you done?"

"Sam, I haven't."

He began moving, agitatedly raking his crutches along the timbered veranda. He had made it two steps before a loose board snagged one rubber tip, causing him to almost fall. He righted himself with a grunt and a sharp curse, then stilled, panting, his eyes closed and head down.

"Sam, please. You're hurting yourself."

He raised his head and she flinched at the undisguised pain in his eyes. "Tell me what you have traded for me."

She wrung her hands and quickly said, "Nothing Sam, you will do it yourself. Your abilities will make the poultice work. That's all. There are no catches. No trades."

"What?"

"I will explain, but you need to sit down."

"No." He leaned forward, awkwardly balanced, his jaw fixed so tight that it seemed his teeth would break.

She drew in a sharp breath. "You have a gift. An inner source of power stronger than anything I have ever witnessed. Separate to your physical life-force but unable to self-sustain. It can, however, be manipulated to facilitate healing, when the circumstances are just right.

She paused, unnerved by the effect her words were having on him. It was as though every utterance sliced some part of him, leaving him raw and vulnerable. She had no choice, he had to know, so swallowed hard and continued, "Your heart stopped in that warehouse, Sam. I read you, probed to see if you were still there. In case something had crossed over. It hadn't. What I sensed was you. Within you and a part of you. An energy, a psychic pulse. Pure and powerful."

"You sensed something in me," Sam rasped, his expression one of abject horror.

"No. Not something. You. I sensed _you_, Sam."

"My pulse."

"No. It was not your pulse. Your heart had stopped."

Sam shook his head, his eyes darting, seeking an escape. But he had nowhere to go. It still did not stop him from trying. He reached the veranda steps then stopped, staring down, his chest heaving. She quickly crossed to him but did not touch. He was wound so tight, ready to crack, ready to fall apart. It seemed that even the slightest contact could break him.

"I cannot tell you what this means," she said. "I don't know why you have these abilities, but I can tell you that the power within you is pure and good. You do not need to be afraid of it, Sam. It will bring you no harm."

He trembled, his gaze fixed on the lawn beyond the veranda steps. "Am I." He wet his lips and drew in a shuddering breath. "Can I… heal? Can I touch people and… and fix them. Lay my hands on them and…." He bit off, his voice tremulous.

"You are not a healer, Sam."

"How can you know?"

"Healers vibrate with a certain energy, a frequency if you like. I don't sense that energy in you."

"Then what am I?"

"You are Sam Winchester," she said gently. "John Winchester's son, Dean Winchester's brother. You are not super-human or infallible. You have a connection to a higher plane – the ethereal web that binds all living and non-living things. Your connection pulses brighter than most, but that's it. That is all. Come back and sit down. Please."

He did not move for several moments and she held her breath. Finally, he shifted, turned back toward the chairs. Once seated, he stared down at his hand then lifted his gaze to the garden. "Can you really fix my hand?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And the poultice, it would work because of my abilities?"

"In part, yes. The entity scoured the wounds by seeking to infiltrate you. That assault leaves residue, dark ash if you like. The poultice will transform the residue at the molecular level to enable cellular regeneration. The power plant for the transformation is your psychic centre. Left alone, the ash will be absorbed, transformed, but not in a healing way. It won't hurt you. But it won't heal you either."

"Can the poultice heal my leg?"

"Your leg will be fine, Sam. If you would stop pushing yourself so hard."

"No, I mean can the poultice only heal the wounds directly inflicted by the entity?"

"Yes." She focussed on the fading scar on his cheekbone. "It would have been effective for that slice to your cheek if the surgeons had not been so skilled. The poultice requires the presence of residue remaining from an attempted external infiltration, like dirt pushed deep into a wound. Any other injury would not respond."

"So this won't help Dean's arm?"

"No. Or any other injury, yours or his. This is a one off, Sam."

"If I didn't have the shining, would the poultice still work, even with the residue of the entity?"

"No it would not." She gently touched his arm. "You don't need to decide yet," she said softly, offering him the only comfort that she could. "The residue will remain until those wounds are fully healed and then some. You have time. Think about it. Let me know what you decide."

"No, I don't need time. I will do it."

"Are you sure?"

"I need my hand, Missouri."

She watched him carefully then nodded. "Then there's something else you need to know."

* * *

"It's cute," Sam drawled sarcastically. He lay on his side in bed, the blankets pulled up to his chest. Ready to fess up about what had happened during Dean's absence, or at least that had been the plan. However, first it seemed that Sam needed to get his kicks by ridiculing Dean's toy shopping efforts. The younger man presently held the soft bunny upside down, intently studying the tag. "It's a toddler toy," he announced. "Tara is eight, or did you forget that?" 

"It's not just for toddlers."

"Uh Dean, yes it is."

Dean yanked the toy from his brother, ignoring the faintly knowing smile on Sam's face. He scowled, flipped the soft bunny upside down and read the tag. "This just means it's safe for toddlers, doesn't mean it is exclusively for toddlers."

"It looks nothing like Boris."

"That's the point."

"It's pink."

"Tara's a girl."

"You really have no idea."

"Missouri thinks it's fine," Dean defended. It had taken him hours to choose the damned thing, so long in fact that security personnel had challenged him twice about his loitering around the soft toy section. As if he looked like a freakin' pervert. That had irritated him beyond belief, but Sam now topped it. "You couldn't do any better," he snapped. He stuffed the toy into the bag and plonked it on the floor between their beds.

Sam grinned tiredly, entirely unfazed by Dean's sour mood. He fluffed the pillow then elbowed it to prop his head up. Dean sat on the edge of his bed, took off his shoes and waved them past his brother's nose. Sam predictably screwed up his face, and swatted at him. Dean chuckled as he moved the runners out of reach. "So, what'd you get up to today?"

Sam's eyes dropped immediately and the goofy smile faded. He shifted in the bed, using the knuckles of his left hand to hitch the blankets higher. "Missouri and I talked."

"And?"

"She can heal my hand?"

Dean froze, his heart skipped a beat as he stared at his brother. "Huh, could you come again?"

"She has a poultice that she can put on it and it'll regenerate the nerves and tendons."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Dean's focus shifted, unwillingly drawn to Sam's crippled left hand. "Can she fly too?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"She can heal my hand, Dean. Completely. Like new. Regeneration."

"Is this some kind of untested mad scientist Frankenstein thing?" Dean asked. His voice had taken on a slightly higher pitch and he inhaled sharply, trying to still the anxiety that edged through him. "Sam, this hand thing sucks out loud, but it's not the end. We will work around it. It's not going to be a problem."

"It's not some Frankenstein thing, Dean. It's a poultice. She'll put it on my hand and it will fix it. It uses a residue that the entity left behind to enable the cells to regrow. I know it's a bit out there, but it's no worse than that thing that did this to me."

Dean only heard part of what his brother said. His blood ran cold. "The entity left something behind in you."

"It's not like that. She calls it ash, like dirt in a wound. She can use that residue to heal me."

Dean scrubbed at his face, his hand shaking. "Sam, I don't like this. Missouri has been great to us, but maybe it's time we hit the road."

Sam pushed himself up higher, wincing before he got himself settled. "It's not like Roy LeGrande, and there's no demon deals, magic spells, sacrificial chickens."

Dean leaned back. He shook his head, anxiety rippling through him. "Then what exactly is it?"

"Herbs, I guess. I don't know. I didn't ask."

"Then what's the catch? I mean, where's all this regeneration coming from?"

Sam shrugged. He looked away, shifting on the bed as he did so. He momentarily closed his eyes. "There is no catch. It's poultice plus entity residue. That's it."

"So, this magic paste stuff, what else can it heal?"

"Nothing. Only a wound that has been created by the entity."

"Fantastic. Okay then." Dean stood. He paced to the door, then turned back. The muscles across his shoulders burned with tension and for a moment he longed for Missouri's stinky skunk goop. He quickly shook that off. "What if it makes you worse, Sam. Did you think of that?"

"At this point, there is nothing worse." He smiled sadly. "I trust her, Dean. You should too."

"I do, but isn't this a bit far fetched." He again found himself staring at his little brother's hand, the long fingers stiff, unnatural. He swallowed hard and looked into Sam's eyes. "Promise me that there's not more to this, because fixing that isn't worth giving something else up"

"It's not like that."

"It's always like that, Sam. You know that."

"Yes, I do. But not this time. I promise."

Almost a full day later, Dean found out that Sam had lied. Not a straight up, in your face, kind of lie, but the withheld information type. Dean had never asked, so Sam had never told. And Missouri had never realized that Dean did not know. So, ten minutes after Missouri had applied the stinky smelly stuff to Sam's hand, wrapped it tightly from fingertips to halfway up his forearm, Dean had no clue of what was about to happen. But the tightness to Sam's jaw, the way his entire body went rigid were the first clues. His little brother's eyes then gave it away.

It slammed into Dean like a lump of wood to the back of the head. Nerve regeneration. That was going to hurt like a bitch, and Sam would endure it for a full day. Twenty-four hours his hand would need to be swaddled up with that poultice searing his nerve endings and tendons with a cellular arc welder. A whole new dimension of suffering, as if Sam hadn't already endured enough.

"It's not so bad," Sam said, but the tears in his eyes gave him away.

Somewhere in there was a sorry, I should have told you. Dean looked away, drew in a deep breath then forced his eyes to Missouri. "What can I do to help him?"

She looked as anguished as he felt. She stood beside Sam, one hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Distraction," she said simply. She brushed at Sam's long bangs, sighing as Sam momentarily closed his eyes, his mouth drawn into a tight, pained line. "I cannot give him anything, his system has to be free of all chemicals. He stopped the pain meds last night."

"That's why he was so freakin' grumpy today," Dean mused, his eyes locked with Sam's.

"Not grumpy," Sam rasped. He smiled thinly, though it was twisted and looked more like a grimace. "Monopoly."

"You want to play a board game?"

"Hmm."

"Now?"

"Yeah."

Dean shrugged, stood and ran a shaky hand through his hair. "Fine. But you won't be getting any pity points out of me."

"I'll nail your ass. Always do."

"Dream on, little brother."

An hour later, the Monopoly board lay spread before them, Dean had two properties, Sam none. His little brother had landed in jail on the second throw, and had not moved out ever since. For all Sam's brave attempts to concentrate on the game, his throbbing hand would not allow him. Pins and needles… on steroids, Sam had admitted. For the past twenty minutes his right foot had been banging out a steady tap-tap against the timber floor. It was driving Dean mad, but refused to allow his frustration to show.

"We could play Scrabble instead," Dean suggested.

Sam glanced at him. "Whatever, man. I don't care." He raised his hand, set it on the table top and stared miserably at it. The staccato tapping got louder as Sam twisted in his seat, bent forward and hugged both arms around his stomach. He breathed raggedly, then straightened, his eyes budded with tears. "Let's go to a bar," he suggested suddenly.

"Uh," Dean managed. He looked across at Missouri. "That's not a very good idea."

"It's actually not a bad idea, Dean. The distraction would help to take his mind off the pain."

"But—"

Sam cut in again. "Biker dudes, half-naked women. Noise. People. Anything. Please." He was already standing and reaching for his crutches. He kept his left arm tight against his chest, hesitating as it dawned on him that he would need to drop it to manage the crutches.

"What about Checkers?" Dean looked at Missouri for help.

She shrugged. "If he wants to go out, take him out. It can't hurt."

The younger boy had finally figured out how to control his crutches and he now stood waiting, his nostrils flared and jaw tight. "C'mon, man. Now."

"Dude, you hate bars."

"I hate this more." He raised his bandaged paw.

"Okay, but don't come crying to me if some fat Dolly Parton chick picks you up. You are the poster-boy for pathetic."

Sam ignored him, already clomping down the hall on his crutches. Dean stayed back a moment. "Missouri, are you sure this is a good idea. I mean, he's not exactly thinking straight."

"Keep an eye on him, if he gets tired bring him back. Otherwise, go and have some fun."

"How?" Dean griped, he could hardly pick up chicks with his injured sibling hanging off his arm. He caught up to Sam and steadied him as the younger man tried to get the door open. "A bar? Dude, are you serious? What about a movie, pool hall, pizza joint."

"I'll drive myself."

"No way, man. You're not getting behind the wheel of the Impala looking like that."

"Then shut your trap and drive me."

"Okay. Okay, but I swear, you're Dolly Parton fodder. Those eyes, that bandage, those crutches. You're going to regret it."

Sam cocked his head to the side. "Now, Dean. Can we go now?"

He raised his eyebrows and opened the door, he glanced back at Missouri before he followed his brother. She watched them both, a small smile on her face. He grumbled, closed the door behind him and followed Sam to the car. He helped the younger man in, tossed the crutches in the back seat and slid behind the wheel.

"You know, we could just—"

"Bar."

"You're sounding like a freakin' broken record, bro."

Sam started tapping on the floorboards with his right foot. "I need a distraction, Dean. This… hurts, okay. I can't sit in there for the next twenty-three hours. I just can't."

Dean swallowed hard as Sam turned pleading eyes on him. "Fine, we'll go to a bar, but if you get picked up or abducted, I'm leaving your ass. I won't come looking."

"Drive, Dean."

"Yeah, yeah, hold onto your panties."

Finding a bar was not hard, finding one that met Sam's criteria was harder. He eventually chose the busiest bar in town, selected because it had the most motorbikes lined up out front. Why that was important, Dean would never know. It was a three storey brick building with a pool hall at the side and accommodation above. It looked far less threatening than some of the others Sam had shown an interest in. Dean nosed the Impala into the parking lot and cut the engine. "You sure you're up for this?"

Sam already had his door open.

"Okay, I guess that's my answer then." Dean met his brother at the other side of the car, retrieved Sam's crutches and steadied him until he got himself organised.

He stayed by his side across the parking lot, then held the door of the bar open so Sam could sidle himself in. The blast of music, stale cigarette smoke and humanity in all shapes and sizes assaulted him. Dean moved closer to his brother, unnerved to see the almost blissful look on Sam's face. The cacophony of sensations clearly had some kind of tranquilising effect on the younger man. The very same effect it normally had on Dean, but instead, the atmosphere jangled his frayed nerves and set him on edge.

"Where do you want to go?" Dean asked, he had to almost shout above the deafening music. Some rap shit, he surmised, which probably accounted for the blissful look on Sam's face.

"Bar."

"We're at the bar."

"Bar."

"God, this is worse than baby-sitting Tara."

"I heard that."

Dean laughed softly, then guided his brother toward the bar. He needled his way through the crowd, making a path for his sibling and ignoring a few protests along the way. Once there, he found no seats empty, but a booth in the corner had yet to be taken. He gestured toward it. Sam took a moment to figure it out, the tranquilizing effect clearly a touch too effective. Dean snagged the sleeve of his hoodie and nudged him in the right direction. By the time they got there, Dean found himself face to face with a beefy, black haired man and his equally tubby girlfriend.

"We got here first," the guy slurred. Dean smelt the alcohol on his breath.

"Actually, we both arrived at the same time," Dean corrected as he took a slight side step in front of his brother.

"No. We were here first."

"Technically, it was a draw. But, my brother here—"

The girl smirked then slid into the booth. "No draw, we were here first."

"You know what, b—"

"Dean," Sam warned. "Leave it."

"Sam."

"No, Dean," he whispered. The younger man then addressed the bulldog and his bitch girlfriend with far more courteousness than either deserved. "We don't want any trouble. Have the booth, we'll sit somewhere else."

"Where exactly?" Dean bit out as they made their way back across the crowded bar.

"Dean, I don't care. But no fights, no hustling, no picking up chicks. Can you manage that?"

"Yeah, course."

Sam huffed softly, then pointed. "There, move Dean, now."

Dean scanned then spotted the table in the opposite corner to where they now stood. He quickly strode across to it, then waited as Sam joined him. The younger man gingerly sat down. Dean took his crutches and stood them by the table. He glanced around, at least the music was not quite so loud here, more like a dull roar. At least he could speak without shouting. "So, now what?"

"Beer."

Dean grinned then shook his head. "Sorry, no alcohol for you."

"Dean."

"It's a chemical, Sam. You can't have anything in your system."

"Food is a chemical, are you telling me I can't eat either?"

"Depends on what you're planning on shoving in your gob."

Sam scowled, folded his arms over his chest and scanned the crowded bar. "One beer, Dean."

"No can do. You said you needed a distraction, not an opportunity to get plastered."

"Fine, then get me a Coke."

"Ah…"

"No way, man. You are kidding me."

"It can clean coins. Imagine what it would do to your insides while all that regeneration stuff is going on. You could grow extra fingers, hair on your palm." He shuddered. "What about water with a bit of lemon on the side?"

"How about I go tell that biker dude back there that you think his girlfriend is a whore."

Dean laughed, then frowned as Sam's scowl darkened. "You are kidding me, right?"

Sam shrugged. He started tapping again, right foot against the floorboards. Dean felt the vibration above the music and the clamour of competing conversations.

"Great. Water then," Sam eventually said.

"Knew you'd see it my way."

"I hate you."

"Yeah, well the feeling's mutual." Dean stood, tucked his chair under the table. "Stay here, no wandering off and no talking to strangers."

Sam rolled his eyes and slouched back in his seat. He cradled his hand, then idly prodded at the bandages. Dean watched him a moment longer then scanned the crowd. No one seemed to be paying them much attention, and the couple in the corner booth were engaged in further enhancing their already alcoholic stupors. He cast another appraising glance at his brother, satisfied that Sam was not in any danger.

At the bar he ordered a beer and a water, then changed the order to two glasses of water. He ended up with bottles of Evian which he had to pay for. He grumbled and griped his way back to their table and then stopped, his heart pounding as he took in the hunting knife in the younger man's hand. Sam had his head down, his features determinedly set as he carved lines into the table's smooth surface.

"Dammit, Sam." Dean growled as he dumped the bottles and wrenched the blade away from his brother. He tucked it into the waistband of his jeans and eyed the patrons seated at the tables closest to him. No one seemed to have noticed the weapon or the dull eyed, mop haired, bandaged young man who had so blatantly displayed it. Dean pulled out his seat and slid into it. He leaned across the table and heatedly whispered, "No weapons in public, dude. Nerve regeneration or not, rules are rules for a reason."

"Why didn't Dad come?"

Dean froze. His heart jerked in his chest. Sam looked up, tears in his eyes. God, he had not seen that coming. Another solid whack to the head. He swallowed hard and said, "I… how do you know I called him?"

"If you had died, I would have called him." Sam looked down, sniffed then rubbed at his eyes with his good hand. He started to trace the gouged lines in the table with one finger, his bandaged left hand lumped on the table beside the heavy scratches.

"You didn't die, Sam," Dean said flatly, but he had a horrible sick feeling that he was wrong.

"I did die," Sam corrected, his words hollow. "In that warehouse, Missouri said my heart stopped for long enough for her to sense…." He caught himself, then laughed, a humorless, pained sound that made Dean flinch. "So much for corridors with white lights, flashing memories and all that shit. I remember nothing."

"What did Missouri sense?" He moved closer, almost touching his brother's wrist but not quite. If Sam noticed, he did not pull away.

"There's some pulsating _thing_ inside me, Dean. These visions, moving that cabinet at Max's place, the nightmares… this," he lifted his left hand, his lips twisting in what Dean could only assume was disgust, "it's all from that. Some psychic powerhouse, Missouri says. She felt it when I was dead. My heart had stopped but this _thing_ continued to pulse away."

Dean suddenly found it hard to breathe. Sam moved to one of the bottles and fingered the label, his intense gaze fixed on the fine print on the side. Dean doubted he could see it through the blur of tears.

The younger boy inhaled sharply, blinked and seemed to find some kind of inner resolve. "I can't blame Dad, you know. I wouldn't come either if I had a kid like—"

"No, Sammy." Dean cut his brother off, grasped his wrist tight enough to stop him if he tried to pull away, but not tight enough to hurt. "It's the pain talking. That's all it is. You're hurting and it's screwing with your mind. Dad loves you. You know that, don't go making this harder than it needs to be."

"Then why didn't he come?"

Dean had worked this over in his own mind so many times, tried to understand why he had not even received a call, a message… anything. He had made no sense of it and had repeatedly failed. But now, staring at his brother's miserably pained features, he finally understood. "To protect us. To protect you."

"What?"

"I left a voicemail message the day I woke up in hospital. I told him that you were in ICU, what had happened, how bad it had been… how bad it was. I never called him again."

"So he thinks we're dead?"

"No. He knows Missouri would have called him if that had happened."

"Did she call him?"

"No. I only made the one call and she made none."

Sam tensed and tried to pull away. Dean tightened his grip and leaned in closer. "Sam, think about it. The thing that he's hunting is one evil son of a bitch, if it even got an inkling that his sons were vulnerable, it would hunt us down, and as much as I hate to say it, we would have been sitting ducks. Do you think he would risk that? Any form of contact could be traced, Sam. He had to stay away to keep us safe."

"Couldn't he have called?"

"Yes, he could have, and that call could have brought something to us. Look what happened with that Meg bitch. He's not going to let that happen again."

Sam stared at him, his expression hopeful. Dean hammered his point home. "This shining stuff of yours is out there, Sam, I admit that, but it will never change who you are. My freakin' annoying little brother and Dad's pain in the ass youngest son. You aggravate the hell out of him, but he loves you, just like I love you. Nothing will ever change that, Sam. Nothing."

Sam looked shocked, teary and suddenly all too emotional for Dean's liking. "Ah shit, Sammy. Don't start bawling on me. People will think we're gay."

"I don't bawl," Sam retorted indignantly.

"Sook then."

"I don't sook."

"Whatever. Here, take this." He grabbed a napkin and thrust it at his brother. "Dolly Parton over there is starting to hyperventilate on those soggy puppy-dog eyes of yours. Clean yourself up, I'm not sure I can keep those bumpers off you if she decides to make a move."

Sam huffed, then scrubbed at his eyes. He glanced to the left, his eyes widening as he took in the plump thirty something year old blonde that wantonly stared at him. "Oh man, I thought you were kidding."

"I wish." He straightened and watched Sam carefully. The younger man still seemed a little too unbalanced for his liking, and Dean suspected it was not just the pain from his hand. He leaned forward. "Sam, don't doubt yourself. And do not doubt Dad. He's got us through this far, he's not going to bail out on us now."

Sam ducked his head, blushing. "Yeah, I know, it's just. This, everything. It's—"

"Fucked."

Sam huffed, a small smile on his lips. "Yeah, truly fucked."

Dean shrugged. "So this pulsing thing of yours, what does Missouri think it is?"

Sam sniffed and returned to picking at the label on the bottle of water. "She doesn't know, but she thinks it's all good. Pure. Powerful."

"That sounds about right. You are a freakin' do-gooder. Feeding stray dogs and all, I'd say pure pretty much sums you up."

"I think I'm a freak, Dean."

Dean's heart clenched at the sadness in his brother's voice, but he covered his reaction with a smooth retort. "Yeah you are, but so is Missouri, Marcus, Beth, Tara." He deliberately left Max out, because… well, Max had been a freak. "And you know what, that biker dude with the fat as hell girlfriend, he's a freak too. Did you see the ears on that dude?"

"One was bigger than the other."

"Way bigger. At least yours match." He frowned then and made a show of checking Sam's ears. "Oh wait, there's a problem here."

"You're jerking me around," Sam said quietly.

"Yes, Sam, I am. Because you're in pain and you're not thinking clearly. Everything seems dark right now, but it's not. There's a reason for everything. Trust me. Big brother knows best."

"Not always."

"Fine, not always, but on this he does."

Sam smiled thinly. "Can we go now?"

"We only just got here."

"It's noisy and it stinks and that woman is giving me the creeps." Sam pushed himself up, waiting as Dean passed him the crutches. "Thanks," he said softly. "For not freaking out and all."

Dean shrugged, snagged the two bottles of water and started a path to the door. "You need a pitstop?"

"Not here."

Once back in the car, Sam's crutches in the back, Dean hesitated with his hand on the ignition. "You know, I've been thinking."

"Don't sprain anything."

"Old and unoriginal."

Sam laughed softly. "Yeah, what?"

"I'm thinking that we need to catch a strip show. Bobbing breasts, g-strings, shockingly loud music."

"No strip joint, Dean."

"It'd distract you."

"It'd distract _you_, it'd gross me out."

"I wonder sometimes whether you were adopted."

"You were, you freak."

"At least my ears match."

"Can we leave now?"

"I don't know where we are going, _Miss Daisy_."

"Back to Missouri's, I have to whip your ass at poker."

"Oh, now that's funny."

"Really? You think I can't take you on and thrash you?"

"I'm the hustler of this family, little brother. Don't you be forgetting that."

Sam laughed. "You need a lesson in humility and I'm going to give it to you."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Really now? And how do you think you are going to do that, mitten boy, you can't even hold the cards."

"I'd still thrash you," Sam shot back. He gestured to Dean's head. "And you shouldn't even be driving. You had brain surgery, Dean. Your head might explode."

"Oh, not you too," Dean groaned. "Missouri has been talking to you, hasn't she?"

"Maybe."

He started the engine. "Word of advice. Shut your cake-hole or you're walking back to Missouri's."

"You wouldn't make me walk."

Dean pursed his lips and considered his brother, waiting until Sam's eyes widened and a shadow of doubt marred the younger man's features. He grinned cheekily. "How's your head?"

"Fine."

"No headache?"

"No."

"Good." He hit the stereo, turned up the volume and leered at his sibling. "You thrashing me at poker. Now that's hilarious."

**

* * *

End Chapter Fifteen**

_Note to readers: Sam's hand is now healed, but the boys still have to deal with the origin of the entity and it's not entirely going to be straight forward "wink". However, that won't be happening for another 2-3 weeks as I have a couple of real life matters that have come up that I must address before I can concentrate on finishing this story. As always, I welcome your comments._

_So, until mid-late August, thank you for reading and remember, every day brings us closer to September 28. Be good. Be safe. ;-)_


	16. Chapter 16

**ENTITY (Chapter Sixteen)**

From Chapter Fifteen:

_Sam laughed. "You need a lesson in humility and I'm going to give it to you."_

_Dean arched an eyebrow. "Really now? And how do you think you are going to do that, mitten boy, you can't even hold the cards."_

"_I'd still thrash you," Sam shot back. He gestured to Dean's head. "And you shouldn't even be driving. You had brain surgery, Dean. Your head might explode."_

"_Oh, not you too," Dean groaned. "Missouri has been talking to you, hasn't she?"_

"_Maybe."_

_He started the engine. "Word of advice. Shut your cake-hole or you're walking back to Missouri's."_

"_You wouldn't make me walk."_

_Dean pursed his lips and considered his brother, waiting until Sam's eyes widened and a shadow of doubt marred the younger man's features. He grinned cheekily. "How's your head?"_

"_Fine."_

"_No headache?"_

"_No."_

"_Good." He hit the stereo, turned up the volume and leered at his sibling. "You thrashing me at poker. Now that's hilarious."_

**

* * *

Chapter Sixteen:**

"You know what, Sammy. We're not playing any more poker."

Missouri surreptitiously watched the two boys as Dean gathered up the cards, agitatedly neatened the pack and slid them to the side. The older boy glowered at his brother, clearly incensed by the catastrophic thrashing he had endured during their three hour long session of poker.

"I did not cheat, you just repeatedly fell for my bluff," Sam responded, appearing to be unaffected by his brother's accusation.

"You never win, Sam. Never," Dean exclaimed. "So what the hell was that?" He gestured to the stack of cards, then looked across at Missouri. "Can he read the cards? You know, see through them or psychically astro-read them or something?"

"No," Missouri answered, unable to withhold a smile at Dean's thinly veiled exasperation and Sam's quiet gloating. She knew exactly how Sam had beaten his brother, but was not about to point it out to either boy. Dean had been doomed from the very outset. Facing off against Sam while the younger boy was so visibly suffering had weighted the game toward Sam without either of them realising it. It was predictable and touching, and likewise Dean's cessation of play had had nothing to do with his frustration at the continual losses, but rather in recognition that Sam could not go on. The younger boy could no longer hold the cards, and now he wrapped his right hand firmly around the wrist of his left, squeezing as though cutting the circulation would somehow detach his hurting hand from the rest of his body.

"You're a sore loser," Sam said heavily around a pained grin. "Face it Dean, I thrashed your sorry ass. I just wished we'd been playing for cash. I'd have made a killing."

"Yeah, well, savor sweet victory, kiddo, because it's a one off."

"Maybe."

"Maybe nothing. We will be having a rematch once you're no longer bandage-boy. You watch my words, I will nail your ass to the table."

"Whatever." Sam smiled and shrugged, drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled it. His attention drew to the clock on the wall. Missouri regretted not having taken it down as Sam's expression changed, grew darker and more pained. Only eight hours had passed since the poultice had first been applied. It would be hours yet before exhaustion took Sam down, and there was nothing Missouri could do to make it easier for him. He drew his attention back to his hand and began picking at the tightly wound bandages.

"We can stop it at any time," Missouri gently reminded. He shook his head, his mouth pressed into a hard line. She knew he would reject that option because to prematurely remove the poultice would circumvent the healing process. It could not be restarted. They all knew that, but still Missouri reminded Sam of the fact that he could opt out at any time. She hoped that knowing he could choose to end it would help in some way.

He looked up at the clock again, then across at his brother. Dean retrieved the cards and toyed with them, the actions deliberate and restrained. Their eyes met and held. Silent communication that Missouri was not privy to.

"If we leave now," Sam suddenly said, "we could be in Perryton by midday."

Dean's eyes widened, but there was not the degree of surprise there that Missouri herself experienced. She looked between them, holding her breath as Dean cocked his head to the side, his brow creasing into a frown.

"We need to go back to Perryton," Sam pressed. He mirrored his brother's head tilt. "You know it makes sense. That's where the entity had to have originated from. It got into Tara at that house. It has to still be there. Somewhere."

Dean had not yet said a word. He sliced the deck, steepled his fingers and bridged the cards, forcing them to interweave like pages of a book. The muted slap of the cards as they realigned sounded harsh in the otherwise quiet room.

"C'mon, man, you know I'm right."

"Yes," Dean bit out. "But you cannot travel, Sam."

The younger boy flinched and his expression darkened. "It's just my hand, Dean. I can travel." As though to prove his point, Sam reached for the crutches, bringing himself up before Dean could stop him. He teetered, unbalanced and Missouri gasped as one crutch slipped and skidded, landing with a harsh thud on the timber floor. The older boy moved quickly, catching his brother and steadying him.

"Oh, God," Sam gasped, his face twisted in pain. He clutched at Dean, clearly unable to stand unassisted. The other crutch fell away and hit the floor with a loud crash.

Missouri stood, her pulse racing as Sam cried out and tried to twist away from his brother. Dean caught him and pulled him close.

"Sammy, talk to me, what's wrong?"

"Leg," Sam hissed between clenched teeth. "Can't… God… make it stop." He pushed at Dean then, forcing the older boy back and almost off his feet. Dean righted himself and eased Sam into the chair he had just vacated. The younger boy sobbed harshly, curling in on himself as he tried to knead at his left thigh. The heavy immobilizing cast prevented his touch from being effective, and he tried to unlatch the Velcro tabs.

Missouri stopped him. "Don't, Sam, it will make it worse."

"He needs the pain meds."

"I know, but he can't." She edged back as Dean crouched before his brother, catching his hands and stilling them.

"Sam, breathe. Hey, look at me."

"It hurts. Please make it stop."

"I will, Sam, but you have to work with me. Breathe, slow and deep."

Missouri watched helplessly as Dean worked to calm his brother down. The cramping through his thigh was to be expected as the muscles healed, and there was pain medication to manage it, but not while the poultice was on. The degree of drug interaction was impossible to determine. It could do as little as affect the healing of Sam's hand, or it could do as much as shut down his entire system. It was not worth the risk, though as she watched Sam struggle to regain control, she wished there had been some other way.

When eventually Sam's breathing evened out and his expression became less pained, Dean drew him into an embrace and held him as he sobbed. Missouri stepped back further, feeling like an intruder, an outsider. Witness to a moment between the two men that was private and born of a bond between them that tragedy, desperation and pain had magnified.

As Sam softly cried against his brother's shoulder, Missouri caught Dean's eye. The older boy quickly looked away, a flash of guilt, of desperation or another emotion that she could not quite read. She could have easily scanned him, but she did not. Instead she retreated, leaving them alone, knowing that despite the love and security she offered them both, there were moments between them within which she had no place. No right to intervene, or even to witness.

As Missouri sank to her haunches on the stairs to the upper storey of her home, she tried to understand what she had seen in Dean's eyes. The older boy felt responsible for his brother. That much she understood, but there was guilt there, a sense of failure that went beyond all that had happened to them both.

She was still pondering it when Dean later joined her. He met her gaze, the earlier glimpse of whatever emotion he had laid bare was now gone.

"He's calmed down," he said. "I'm going to grab the laptop. He wants to surf for a while. Catch up on emails or something."

"Okay."

Dean nodded, glanced back to the dining room, and then headed off down the hall. Missouri waited until he returned, carrying the portable computer. He hesitated by her side, that look in his eyes again. She resisted the urge to read him, knowing that she had no right, no permission. She had only to wait a moment before he offered her an explanation she had been unable to find for herself.

"Once he crashes, I will leave for Perryton."

She registered his words with a start. She opened her mouth to explain to him that it was not a good idea, but he spoke before she had a chance.

"I have to go, Missouri. He has to know that thing is dead. Once and for all. Until he does, it's not going to get any easier for him."

"Once the poultice is off, he can go back on the pain meds. He doesn't need to go through that again."

"Maybe not, but the drugs won't stop the nightmares."

"He's having nightmares," she said hollowly, unsurprised but disturbed nonetheless. "You hadn't said."

He shrugged. "He needs some peace, Missouri. Some certainty and he's not going to get it until that thing is gone."

She agreed, but was not yet ready to give in. "You're not well enough to travel," she argued. She gestured to the bandages on his right arm. "Give it another week. Your arm will be better healed by then."

"No. I will leave as soon as he crashes. With any luck I'll be back before he wakes, but if not, you have to make sure he does not try to follow me."

"I know how important it is to find that thing, but if you do and something goes wrong—"

"I can manage it."

"Can you?"

He looked up, his eyes darkened, his expression hard. "You need to watch Sam. Do not let him leave here and do not leave him alone. Let me worry about the rest."

This was the point where she ought to put him in his place. Berate him. Threaten him with a wooden spoon as though he were a child. But she did nothing of the sort. Instead she swallowed hard against the dryness in her mouth and nodded stiffly.

"This has to be done," he added. "He cannot go on like this."

"I know." And she did know. It would be weeks before Sam would be well enough to travel and even longer before he could start hunting again. The entity needed to be found and destroyed, to give them all peace of mind, but mostly for Sam. He was gaining ground, healing well, but there was a sadness about him that had not been there before. She had thought it was about his abilities, but now she realised that it was more than that. He was scared, haunted by all that had happened and unable to recover while there was the potential for it to recur. Dean was right. He had to find the origin and finish it.

"Then promise me you will call your father once you're on the road. He can help you find the thing."

"He can't come to Sam. He can't come here."

"I know, honey. But he can help you, and it would ease his mind to see you and to know that Sam's okay. He has to be going out of his mind with worry."

"Yeah, I know."

"So you will call him?" She felt she needed to press a little harder to be sure. Winchester pride manifested itself in so many obscure ways, and she knew that Dean carried a lot of guilt for his brother's suffering. It would be foolish for him to go off alone, but pride and misplaced guilt sometimes corrupted even the smartest of minds.

"I will call him," he said, but he did not quite meet her eyes.

Several hours later, Dean held his brother, Sam's head in his lap and his fingers weaving through the younger boy's sweat soaked hair.

"You won't leave without me?" Sam breathed. His eyes were hooded, blinking lazily and fixed at a point somewhere across the room. He lay on his side on the bed, his left hand propped against Dean's thigh, the fingers of his right banded around the wrist. "Promise."

The older boy looked up at Missouri, his eyes pained. "It'll be okay, Sam. You'll see."

"You didn't promise," Sam said heavily. His hands twitched, but exhaustion and pain prevented him from moving, from turning so he could see his brother's face. Frustration sparked in his eyes, then faded as his wearied system betrayed his will. "Dean," he breathed. "Don't… go."

"Sammy."

"Please."

How Sam had figured it out, Missouri did not know. But he had, and as Sam slipped into a restless sleep that he could no longer fight, she knew she would have a huge battle on her hands once he woke and found his brother had gone.

Dean's fingers trembled as they weaved through Sam's sweat moistened hair. Without raising his head, he said, "Drug him if you need to. Or lock the house, shackle him to the bed, I don't care what it takes, but don't let him leave here. He will try, Missouri. He's a stubborn bastard and he will try to trick you."

"I will not do any of those things to your brother," she said softly, her gaze fixed on Sam. "But I will call you and I expect that you will hand the phone to your father so that Sam can hear his voice. Once Sam knows that you are with your Dad, that you're not arrogantly going after this thing on your own, that should be enough to keep him from leaving here."

He looked up at her, his gaze wary. She raised her eyebrows at him and shifted one hand to her hip. "You were intending to call your father, weren't you honey?"

He shrugged. "Guess I have no choice now, huh?"

"Damned right, boy."

Dean smiled faintly as he stood, moving Sam so that the younger boy's head rested on the pillow. He tucked the blankets around him. "You drive a hard bargain."

"No, I simply know how Winchester stubbornness manifests. And I see a lot of it in you boys. It comes from your father."

"Yeah, well. I'll go take a shower, then I'll head out."

* * *

Dean was two hours away from Missouri's home when the first hint of dawn touched the far horizon. He stopped shortly after, his arm aching from the tension he forced through it to keep the car on the road. Missouri was right. He was not up for this, but he could not go back and he was not yet far enough away from Lawrence to risk calling his father. 

He pulled the Impala into a roadhouse, nosed up to the twenty four hour café and cut the engine. He leaned forward, pressed his forehead against his left forearm, his right arm tight against his stomach. Queasy sourness tightened his gut and made him swallow hard. He wearily raised his head and blinked back the exhaustion. Stress, lack of sleep and pain were a vicious cycling combination that was dangerous. He had to break it before he ended up as a bloody smear on the highway, or worse, caused someone else to end up that way.

He eyed the roadhouse, then lifted his head to scan around. Apart from a couple of truckies, their rigs parked off to the side and a scruffy middle aged man refuelling his SUV at the pumps, he pretty much had the place to himself. Which meant nothing really, but force of habit made him perform the visual reconnaissance anyway.

Once inside, Dean ordered two steaming cups of coffee and slouched into a chair at one of the chipped laminex tables. He stared dully outside, watching as 'scruffy' checked the tires of his SUV, inflated one then started on washing his windscreen. Travelling salesman, Dean surmised. He took a long sip of the coffee, wincing as the bitter liquid burned his tongue.

His attention drifted, lazily cataloguing as the caffeine leached into his system. By the second cup, his eyes had gained some level of alertness and he seemed to have a better handle on the pain. He ordered a third just in case, and snagged a handful of chocolate bars for the road.

"You eating anything?" the dumpy brunette waitress asked as she deposited his third cup.

"No, just the coffee thanks."

"That's not healthy."

God, she sounded just like Sam. He managed a smile but it seemed to further encourage her.

"I'll get you a plate of bacon, eggs and sausage," she said.

"I'm fine."

"It'll be five-fifty. You broke or something?" She looked at the Chevy. "That stolen?"

"No." He straightened in his seat, wishing he had ordered the coffee to go. Though walking out with the café's crockery would no doubt confirm her assumption that he was a destitute thief.

"Nice car."

"Thanks. I'm really not hungry."

"Too much caffeine will give you heart failure," she said. She gestured to the five bars on the table. "So, you want juice with your breakfast?"

"I don't have time—"

"My husband is a tow truck driver. He gets to keep many of the highway wrecks. Drivers who think they're invincible, they tank up on caffeine then hit the road. He'd like that car of yours, you know."

Dean watched the woman carefully. She smiled, the expression crinkling her eyes.

"So, what about it. Bacon, eggs, tomato, mushrooms… spinach?"

"I'm really not—"

"Hungry. You've said. So you won't be taking these then?" She slid the chocolate bars across the table, lightly scooping them up.

"I paid for those."

"Yes you did and I will deduct them from your breakfast tally."

"Maam, I'm really not hungry." He stood, intending to leave but she stepped into his path.

"You need to know that I clean the blood out of the cars after the police have finished with them, insurance don't want them and the families don't want the wrecks back. We salvage what we can, panel beat the best and sell them. But there's always blood. I never get used to it, and last year I realised I could do something about it. Pete doesn't mind that there aren't so many wrecks to salvage from. He knows why. It's my bacon, eggs and sausage." She smiled gently. "And my persistence. So how about you sit down and I'll bring you out your breakfast."

Dean looked down, unconsciously drawing his broken arm closer to him. It throbbed with a mean intensity that no amount of caffeine could shift. "I really need to be going," he said.

"I don't know why you're travelling, or who for, but you won't make it far on three coffees and chocolate bars. And as much as Pete would love that car, we would both prefer that you kept it. And stayed alive. Blood is hard to get out, even from leather."

"You do this to everyone who passes through here?"

"No, only people like you who are too quiet, order too many coffees and stare at the same thing for minutes on end. Plus, you're hurt. That arm is broken, isn't it?"

"No sausage," Dean said softly, avoiding answering the question. He returned to the chair and sat heavily. "Apple juice and toast on the side."

She nodded, accepting that her part had been played and she would learn no more about him. "Coming right up."

He watched her walk away. She had taken the chocolate bars with her. She returned a moment later with the juice, a newspaper and an unopened packet of over the counter pain pills. Not quite prescription strength and non-drowsy. "They're three-forty. You got that much? I may hate blood, but I'm not a charity."

He smiled faintly. "I'm good for it."

She nodded then disappeared. The plate of hot food took forever to arrive. Well over forty-five minutes, yet it came out steaming hot. Dean knew it was a ploy to keep him off the road for a while longer.

It was just on eight o'clock by the time he finished the meal. The roadhouse was bustling with activity and the waitress paid him little attention as he settled the account. He realised then that in her eyes he was nothing special, just another life, another potential accident waiting for somewhere to happen. She had saved him from that, but without needing any recompense. Her motivations were purely selfish, yet he was thankful nonetheless. And he did feel better.

It was odd, that someone would care so much, take so much effort, yet not really care at all.

"Drive safely," she called to him as he reached the door. He turned and smiled but her attention was already on the next patron, he and his gleaming Chevy Impala already forgotten.

Back at the car, he called Missouri on the cell phone. She picked up after several rings and she sounded breathless.

"Honey, now is not a good time."

Dean's skin prickled. "Sam?"

"No, he's sleeping. It's Tara. She's run away from the Harrison's."

"What? Why?"

"That damned toy. She threw some kind of a hissy fit last night about it. Now she's missing."

"I thought you'd given it back to her."

"No, I gave it to Estelle, a friend in the laundry business. She is trying to get the damned thing clean. I swear, it's like that toy won't let go of the blood. Anyone other than a Winchester and I'd not have a problem."

She was joking, her tone light, but Dean frowned. "Does Estelle think that it should have come clean by now?"

"Yes, but look, don't worry. The Harrison's are looking for Tara. She'll show up. Sam's fine. He's still asleep. Once Tara gets here I'll give her the toy you bought." Another sound came across the line, a second phone ringing. "Dean, honey, don't worry. Everything's under control here. I have to go. Call me when you've gotten in touch with your father."

She hung up, but Dean did not immediately let go of the phone. The child's obsession with the toy did not quite make sense, and the blood. Dean knew Missouri had tried every chemical, everything on the market to get the thing clean. It was possible that her attempts had forced the stain into the fabric, but surely Estelle would know that. She was in the business.

He cast his mind back, trying to work through everything that had happened since finding that child in the attic in Perryton. That toy had been with Tara then and with her ever since. She had had it with her at the warehouse. And then Sam's blood. Missouri had told him that the toy had been near Sam's body, not touching him, but close enough for Sam's blood to reach it. Dean knew Sam had almost bled out and had never questioned how the toy had come to be so heavily stained. But now he wondered. He had no doubt that the origin of the entity had been at Perryton with Tara, but he could no longer dismiss the possibility that it had accompanied her.

He rubbed at the nape of his neck, stretching before he settled the hand back on the wheel. After a moment's hesitation, he retrieved the phone and called Missouri back She came on the line and her tone developed a touch of annoyance as she recognised it was him.

"Honey, I've told you that everything is fine here."

"Where's the toy?"

"It was with Estelle. Why?"

"I think that entity came from it."

"What?"

"Missouri, I don't know for sure," Dean admitted with a sigh. "But I'm worried. Tara's obsession with it, the blood that won't wash out. I know it's a bit of a stretch, but I think we need to take it seriously."

"She's traumatized. It's the only reminder she has of her parents."

"We don't know that for sure. We have just assumed that sentimentality is what is making her pine for it, but what if it's not. What if that thing is still connected to her in some way and it's trying to lure her back."

Missouri fell quiet for a moment, then said. "Estelle could not get the blood out either. I wasn't going to say anything to either of you. I was just going to get rid of the toy once it got back here."

"Does Estelle still have it?"

"No. She on forwarded it onto a friend of hers who tried to get it clean but also failed. He has put it in the post back to me."

"It's in the post," Dean clarified, a tremor of unease drilling through him. "Where is Tara?"

"The Harrison's are looking for her."

"She can't get that toy. If I'm right and the entity is drawing Tara in, then reuniting would enable her to be reinfected." He turned the key in the ignition, then reversed out. "I'm coming back."

"Dean, there's something else."

Dean touched the brake, bringing the Impala to a stop before the exit to the highway. He waited for the traffic to clear, his grip tight around the small phone.

"Tara told the Harrison's that Sam was badly hurt and that he almost died." Dean heard Missouri draw in a breath before she added, "she said she wished that he had. I didn't think it meant anything. You know kids, they like to let off steam sometimes. But now."

Dean found a break in the traffic and punched the accelerator. "I'm two hours away, Missouri. If Tara turns up, keep her away from Sam and from that toy."

An hour later, Missouri called Dean to tell him that Tara had been found. The Harrison's were dropping her over and that she was fine, withdrawn and brooding, but unharmed. The mail service had no record of a parcel having arrived but they agreed to place a block on all incoming mail until further advised.

"And Sam?"

"He's still asleep. Snoring. I never realised he was so loud."

Dean smiled then, but it did not relieve any of the tension that was building within him. He was still an hour away, and Tara was back in that house. Sam was unconscious. And the damned toy was who knows where. Too many unknowns. Too many uncontrolled variables. He did not like it, and the miles were too slow to pass.

* * *

Pressure and movement against Sam's bandaged hand slowly brought the young hunter back to consciousness. He struggled to make sense of the sensation as he lay on his back, his eyes closed. He felt it again, able to isolate the sensation from the myriad of hurt that assaulted his battered body. His leg ached the worst, but again his hand drew his attention. He turned his head to the side and opened his eyes. 

Tara stood beside his bed, the girl had her head down, her features knitted in concentration as she worked at doing something to his hand. Sam wet his lips, intending to say something, when pain burned across his wrist. He jerked then, grimacing as he pulled his hand away. He felt a brief resistance, then he clutched his throbbing limb to his chest as he pushed himself up. His head spun and bile licked the back of his throat, but he managed to see that she had a knife, the blade stained red. He stared in shock.

She looked scared, wide eyed, her gaze fixed on his forearm. He looked down at the growing patch of red against the white bandage.

"Boris told me to." She said in a rush, then dropped the knife and stepped back. She turned on her heel and fled the room.

Sam stared after her, his heart pounding hard against his ribcage. He looked down at his wrist. Tara had unwound the bandages far enough to expose his inner forearm. She had cut him just below his wrist, deep enough to bring a steady stream of blood, but not deep enough to be serious. He had no doubt that if he had not woken, she would have cut deeper.

He shivered, his breath hitching as he struggled to make sense of what had just happened. He scanned the room, taking in the light from outside, the neatly made bed, the quietness of the house.

"Dean?" he called, but he couldn't put much strength to the name. He tried calling for Missouri next, but similarly received no response. His gaze slid to the cupboard by the door. The spot where Dean always left the Impala's keys. They were missing. He stared blankly for a long moment before he realised that Dean had gone. It did not come as a great shock, he suspected that it was his brother's intention, but the sense of betrayal and anger still shifted in place anyway.

Snagging his crutches, Sam slowly made his way out of the room and down the hall. Tara had disappeared. He reached the kitchen and found it empty. He continued on past it until he reached the rear of the house. He did not find either Tara or Missouri there. He cocked his head as he heard a dull thumping sound from upstairs. He returned to the hall and stopped at the base of the stairs. Panting heavily, he looked up and called the black woman's name.

He heard something in response, but it was muffled and incomplete. He was about to start the slow laborious climb up the stairs when Tara appeared at the head. She looked down at him, a small smile on her lips.

"Boris is coming," she said cryptically. Her smile widened. "He likes you, Sammy. He wants you."

Sam froze, his heart pounding to a sudden stop. A shadow passed before the door. The doorbell rang. Tara giggled and skipped down the stairs.

Sam snagged the back of her jacket as she hit the bottom step. She squirmed and wiggled, but he held firm. The doorbell rang for a second time and the thumping from upstairs increased in intensity. He looked up, regretting his inattention as Tara twisted and launched herself at him. Though only a slight thing, the momentum pushed Sam back. The crutch tips skidded and his support fell away. He hit the wall and slid down, his legs going out from beneath him. The immobilizer on his left leg protected his thigh from the fall, but not from Tara as she jumped on him. He groaned as she targeted his broken leg and she stopped for a moment, her dark eyes scanning his.

"It's Boris," she said knowingly. She leered, her eyes flashing with an unnatural gleam. Somewhere in the house a phone started ringing

He bit back a cry as Tara bounced on his leg. His fingers slipped just a fraction. She wrenched away, using the wall as leverage before twisting back around as she launched a fist-flying attack. He deflected much of it, unable to fully contain her for the damage to his left hand. She got in a few lucky punches that stung, but she did not do enough damage to break free.

The doorbell rang for a third time and the shadow behind the glass moved as though trying to peer in.

He glanced toward it, and looked back in time to see Tara leaning over his lower leg. He was about to haul her back when absolute pain ripped through his broken leg. He choked out a strangled scream, the agony nullifying any control he had over his body or over her. He panted as the girl slipped his grasp and skipped down the hall. He watched with dull eyes as she unlatched the door. She spoke to someone, but Sam could not move and could not get in enough oxygen to call for help.

The phone stopped ringing, then started again moments later. The door swung closed and Tara stood before it, silhouetted by the light that radiated through the glass. She methodically unwrapped a rectangular shaped box, and paid him no attention as he begged her not to.

She similarly ignored him as he began crawling, dragging himself along the floor in an attempt to reach her before she unwrapped the package. He did not make it.

Sam watched in horror as a second figure slipped and twisted then slid in place beside the girl. Tall, black, wispy at the edges but human in shape. It shimmered for a moment, then solidified and as soon as it did, Tara screamed. Gone was the homicidally possessed Carrie-type child. The girl shrieked in terror and tried to run. Sam felt the energy shift, electrify and knew that Tara was about to die. Something in him recognised it and instinctively responded. He stiffened as pulsing energy erupted between he and the shadowy form, bridging and locking them together. Once connected, Sam groaned and adjusted the frequency, shifting the boundaries to a maxim that he could tolerate. He then held it there.

Evil blood-red eyes turned to Sam and fixed on him. The unblinking gaze was the only descriptive feature in a body encased in swirling darkness. It literally seethed with black rage and Sam jolted as it fought to disengage the hold that the younger hunter had over it. But it would not break. At least not yet. As the connection vibrated then settled, Sam knew he had locked it down.

He took advantage of the connection, teasing information from the bridge between them. Across the void came smatterings of data about what the thing was, what it wanted and how it could be destroyed. Sam absorbed it all, analysed it and then formed a strategy. As he sat there, incapable of physically moving, barely able to breathe through the pain from his injuries and the toll that the connection took on him, he knew what had to be done. It was beautifully simplistic, poetic even. The entity had been born from electricity, and it would die in the same way. There was only one small flaw. Killing the entity would kill him. As he pondered that, his resilience gradually being stripped away by the wearing pain, he realised that it was a price he was willing to pay.

The connection fired again as the thing struggled to break free, and Sam whimpered and bit down. He closed his eyes, tears hot against his cheeks as he struggled to breathe. He silently begged his brother to come back. Dean was a necessary component in killing this thing, and Sam needed it dead. The older boy would not know the price Sam was willing to pay, and he recognised the selfishness of keeping that from his brother. But he was beyond being a team player. The thing had plans for him -- plans that Sam could not endure. Beyond the pain, beyond all he had been through, what the future held was far worse. He needed it all to be over. He needed to be safe and staying alive was no longer safe.

**

* * *

End Chapter Sixteen**


	17. Chapter 17

**ENTITY (Chapter Seventeen)**

From Chapter Sixteen:

_Evil blood-red eyes turned to Sam and fixed on him. The unblinking gaze was the only descriptive feature in a body encased in swirling darkness. It literally seethed with black rage and Sam jolted as it fought to disengage the hold that the younger hunter had over it. But it would not break. At least not yet. As the connection vibrated then settled, Sam knew he had locked it down._

…

_Dean was a necessary component in killing this thing, and Sam needed it dead. The older boy would not know the price Sam was willing to pay, and he recognised the selfishness of keeping that from his brother. But he was beyond being a team player. The thing had plans for him -- plans that Sam could not endure. Beyond the pain, beyond all he had been through, what the future held was far worse. He needed it all to be over. He needed to be safe and staying alive was no longer safe_

**Chapter Seventeen:**

Bright sunshine, light cottony clouds, a gentle breeze. Nothing bad happened on days like that, but Dean knew better. He screeched into the driveway of Missouri's home and saw the black woman standing on the porch, her hands twisted into knots. She met him at the bottom of the steps, stopped him with a hand against his chest.

"The entity is here," she said, her tone flat, horrified.

"Where's Sam?"

She seemed to wilt. "He is holding it off."

"With what?" He tried to move past her, but again she blocked him. His eyes flashed as she placed both hands on his chest, flattening her palms. He grabbed her wrists to pull her away.

"Taser," she said.

Frustrated, he pushed her hands away and roughly nudged past her. She caught him again, the back of his jacket this time.

"He says you have a taser."

Dean stiffened, turned to look at her then past her to the car, the glistening sunshine. He turned back to the house. It towered over him, the front door closed, somewhere inside was his brother – and that thing. He ripped out of her grasp, ignoring her as she again reached for him. He took the steps in one stride and reached the door. He expected it to be unlocked. It was not.

"Dean, you have to get the taser."

He faced her, his blood thrumming with anxiousness, barely repressed panic. "What?"

"He says electricity will kill it. He said you have a taser."

"What's going on? Where is he?"

"Inside, with it." Tears welled in her eyes, made her look down. He tracked her gaze and saw blood on the sleeve of her jacket.

"You're hurt."

"It's nothing."

"Let me see." He returned to her, shifted the material so he could see the cut. Long and bloody. "It'll need stitches."

"It got the drop on me," Missouri admitted softly. "I thought the property was safe so I wasn't vigilant. I'm sorry, honey. I'm so sorry."

Her hollow apology disturbed him. He stepped back, let his hands drop to the sides. His gaze again slid to the house, took in the tinkling charms, the pots of God knows what that Missouri had littered around the place to keep the supernatural out. He flexed his fingers, beating away the cold slicked sweat that folded in on them.

"Sam thinks a taser will kill it?" he asked.

"Yes," she looked up. "He's certain of it."

"Fine, then we taser the bitch."

He retrieved the taser and a handgun from the car, then sprinted down the side of the house. Missouri struggled to keep up.

"Dean," she panted, "Tara's not possessed. At least not any more. Releasing that thing released her. She's not dangerous. Don't hurt her."

Dean weighted the handgun, studied Missouri's face, then tucked the weapon into the waistband of his jeans.

"Where is it?" he asked.

"In the hallway with Sam."

Dean moved inside. He found Sam sitting with his back against the wall, midway down the hall. Between Sam and the door was a human-like form. Dark and denser than a moonless night, a void with infinite depth and visible sentience. Fire red eyes in the otherwise featureless figure had locked on Sam. Dean found himself unable to look away, unable to move or even breathe.

"Shadow person," Sam said, his voice breathy soft, pained.

Dean swallowed, forced himself to move. He reached his brother's side, his attention fixed on the entity by the door. It did not divert its attention from Sam.

"That's no shadow person, Sam."

"It's evolved. You got the taser?"

"Why isn't it moving?"

"I've locked it down."

"Okay." Dean's skin prickled. "That's a mind thingy, right?"

"You have to taser it. One hundred thousand volts. It will kill it."

"If it's a shadow person, then a taser isn't going to take it out."

"It will this time."

Dean finally looked at his brother. Really looked at him and the exhaustion and pain in the younger man's face shocked him. Sam looked worn, aged, sick and beaten. Worse than Dean had ever seen him, and he thought that impossible. Sam's gaze held, but there was an emptiness there that scraped through Dean.

"The taser, Dean."

"I've got it."

"Use it."

It was a command. An order. Directed without tone or depth, but an order nonetheless. It sounded oddly out of place coming from Sam and Dean sought to challenge it. He sought to understand.

"How do you know it will work?"

Sam got that look. The _just do it already_ look, then it passed and the bare emptiness shifted back. Dean fought to get a breath against the cold fingers that knotted through his chest, compressed his will.

"Do it, Dean."

Another command. Dean resisted it, tension tickling at the edge of his consciousness. Sam's eyes closed, the emptiness shuttered. His expression twisted with anguish that made him look ugly and old.

"It's killing him," Missouri said fretfully. "Dean, please. Just shoot the thing."

Dean tensed and his finger tightened on the trigger, his limbs trembling. Beside him, Sam's breathing changed, became heavier, harsher. He looked down and saw blood coming from Sam's nose, both nostrils, a constant deliberate trickle. Sam groaned, low and deep. He fisted one hand in his hair and restlessly tugged at the long strands.

Anguish made Dean's hands shake violently, but the proximity of his target still ensured that he would get a valid kill. He had only to pull the trigger. It was easy. So easy. Too easy.

He hesitated, looked down at his brother. Tears stained Sam's cheeks, weaved through the blood and accentuated the agony that impaled the younger boy.

"God, Dean," Sam pleaded. "End it. Please."

Dean's finger caressed the trigger, the aim accurate, the objective sure, but a tight band of anxious misgiving compressed his chest and made him doubt. The barest breath of time passed as Dean struggled with uncertainty. He scrutinised Sam's face, searched past the tears, the twisted grimace, the sheen of sweat and blood. He forgot to breathe as he saw something else, an emotion he had never encountered in Sam. Beneath the raw surface that evidenced his kid brother's suffering was a darker edge of torment. An interface of desperation that nuzzled like folded silk at the jagged corners of Sam's battered consciousness. Dean did not recognise it. Did not immediately understand what it meant.

"There's no other way," Sam whispered, every word laced with hurt and hollow defeat. "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry."

His little brother's tortured apology provided Dean with the clarity that had been missing. He almost vomited as understanding gouged deep into his gut and twisted. He dropped the taser, his breath coming in hard fast pants.

"You're connected to that thing. Electrically connected. That's how you're holding it off, some energy connection. And you were going to let me zap it. Zap you. Christ, Sam, it would have killed you."

"There's no other way."

Dean stared at his brother, unable to believe that Sam could so easily sacrifice himself. They had shut down the faith healer that had healed Dean. Did Sam forget that? But he saw it in his brother's eyes that Sam had not. Weeks of torment, of near death, of mistakes that had caused Sam incomprehensible pain – that had almost cost them their lives – had stripped Sam of his resilience. Now, when it came down to it, Sam had given up. Dean could understand it, could even empathize, but he would never accept it.

"You have to break the connection. Once you do, I will fry the son of a bitch."

"There won't be time. It will kill you. And Missouri and Tara."

"Maybe."

"Not maybe. I know what it wants, Dean. I know everything about it. And I know that it wants you dead. The moment I let it go, it will kill you. It will be so fast, you won't even know it. But I will. I will see it all."

"So you're just going to take yourself out. Just like that. No family discussion to see, hell, maybe there's another way."

"You don't understand," Sam said brokenly. "It wants to use my abilities to draw in others like me. Everything we have done, all we have stopped, it will have been for nothing. And it will make me live it all. I won't even be able to… to kill myself. Please, you have to end it."

"I'm not going to end you, Sam."

"To not do it is… crueller," Sam rasped. His tear muddied gaze dropped to stare with morbid longing at the taser.

Dean could barely breathe. This was not happening. This was not how it would end. It would not. It was not a fucking option. He gnashed his teeth, turned and slammed his fist into the wall. Pain rocketed through his forearm, weakened his knees. Endorphins flooded his system a moment later, warming him with a rush that skittered and twisted leaving him dizzied and panting. He breathed hard through the warm glow, grimacing pain, the rage, the brutal injustice, and braced one arm against the wall as he leaned toward Sam.

"That thing is not getting you. You will not watch us die, and you will not become that thing's host. I promise you, I will fix this."

"Dean."

"No, Sam." Dean drew in a hard steadying breath. The figure hovered less than ten feet away, waiting, seemingly patiently but with a vibrating energy that told of what its intentions. "How much longer can you hold that thing off?"

"It's over. There's no point."

"No. You and me. This. It's not over. It does not end here, Sam. You do not end here."

"Dean—"

"Listen to me. I know you will do anything to stop that thing from killing again, and I know you've been through absolute hell. But I'm telling you that it won't always be like this. I can fix this. I can get rid of that thing and I can save you. But you have to buy me some time. You have work with me. You have to fight."

"I can't."

The dark certainty in Sam's voice brought Dean down. He dropped heavily, cross-legged, a dulled, slow burn through his muscles as he fought back the rising panic. He sucked in a hard breath and caught Sam's unbandaged hand. It was cold, sweaty and the long fingers jerked with uncontrolled spasms.

"Sammy, look at me."

His brother did, but the dulled eyes warned Dean that soon his brother would not be able to comprehend. His system was shutting down – going into shock.

"I know what you did in that warehouse," he started, his voice shaking. "I know what you endured. But even through all of that pain, Sam, you held on. You defeated it. You did it then, you can do it now."

"I can't."

"You can. Trust me, you can. You're stronger than that thing. You exorcised the bitch even after everything it had done to you."

"You will die."

"Not if you hold that thing off until I can neuter it. You can break the connection and I'll taser it. I just need you to be strong for a little longer."

Sam stared for several long moments, his eyes glazed, the eyelids heavy, then he breathily said, "I'm sorry." His eyes slipped closed.

"Sammy, no." Dean grabbed his brother and shook him, making him gasp and his near closed eyes to widen. Dean leaned in close. "While you still have a pulse, I will fight for you. But you have to hold on. You have to fight. Please, fight with me. Don't give up. Not now."

Sam's eyes glazed over and he began to fall to the side. Dean choked back a cry, grasped the front of his brother's jacket and pulled the near unconscious boy to him. The entity watched them keenly and Dean jerked his gaze away, terror and panic warring to bring him entirely undone.

"Fight," he rasped. "I'm begging you, Sammy. Please. Fight. For me. I can't… I can't do this alone."

His impassioned plea received no response. He knotted his fingers into the fabric of Sam's jacket and fought back the wracking sobs that tore through him. He heard Missouri behind him. She was crying but he did not turn to see her.

"Missouri, leave," he forced out. "Get out of here. Take Tara and get out of here."

He did not hear her move, nor did she say anything. He closed his eyes, his brother's listless body clutched hard against his own. He felt the steady rhythmic pulse of Sam's heart, inhaled the coppery, stale scent of sweat, blood and fear. His muscles tightened, his injured forearm suffering further abuse as he attempted to rise, to pull Sam up. If he could get his brother away from it, physically separate him from the entity….

He only made it to his knees before he fell, overwhelmed by the vicious realisation that there was no escape for his brother. There was no physical distance that could save Sam. He raised his head and screamed his denial, his anguish. The sound tore off into a choked whisper as his fingers unconsciously found the taser. He brought it up to fire, his arm quivering, his muscles crippled, weighted.

His vision shimmered, but he could see the thing through the blur of tears. He had only to fire. So easy. It would all go away. Countless lives would be saved. And Sam would die.

He sobbed, his arm shuddering, then dropping. The taser fell to the floor. Out of reach, but the loss was deliberate. He could no more kill his brother than he could will himself to cease breathing. He recognised his own selfish ineptitude, and self hatred suddenly wired through him, the sensation dark and pure. It rapidly intensified, demanded an outlet, and he took the only thing close: Sam.

He pushed his brother away, holding him at arm's length, his fingers gouged into the younger man's biceps. Then, with a sharp jerk, he shook Sam, making his head snap on his shoulders. When that elicited no response, Dean viciously shook him again, adding a verbal tirade to the physical assault.

"Fight, dammit. Don't you give up on me. Not now. Not after all of this. Don't you fucking dare."

Sam jerked and groaned. Dean stilled, his nerves jangling, sweat cold against his skin, making him shiver. He waited, holding his breath as Sam sluggishly raised his head. The younger man blinked heavily and struggled to focus. Then the blue-green eyes met Dean's and held.

"Shut the hell… up," Sam said breathily.

"Sammy?"

"And what's with… the hands?"

Dean smiled then. A reflex action that defied the curdled anxiousness through his gut, the stone cold drive of blood through his veins. Sam squinted back at him.

"Hands, Dean," Sam reminded, his tone softly exhausted but firm.

"Uh, yeah." Dean loosened his grip on Sam's upper arms. "Sorry."

Sam blinked heavily, then leaned back against the wall. He tipped his head back, his eyes closing.

"I can... hold it for five minutes. Best… can do."

"That'll be enough," Dean said throatily. Emotion choked off any further words, but he could not linger, could not dwell in the moment. He stood, bracing himself against the wall as nausea churned his gut. He breathed through it, retrieved the taser and stepped past his brother.

Missouri stood just a few steps behind. He stopped beside her, wiped a hand across his face, trying to scour away the tears. "You need to leave," he said, his voice low.

She said nothing, just stared at Sam. Dean glanced back. His brother's eyes were closed, his head back, the blood thick on his lips and chin. He had one hand braced against the floor, leaning heavily to that side.

"I will stay with him," Missouri said.

"You could die."

"I know."

She looked up and Dean knew she understood the potential sacrifice. She did not even question whether it might be best to give it up. Losing Sam was not an option – for either of them.

At the kitchen, Dean scanned the room. Tension knotted his gut and made his pulse drum against his ears. He had no idea of what to do. None at all.

He hugged his injured forearm against him, the sharp ache now making him queasy. He moved to the counter and braced himself against it. His knees weakened. He fought the urge to sink to the floor and curl into a fetal ball. The entity would find him there and make mince meat out of him. It would be quick though. He would not even feel it. But he could not submit, not yet. Not while there was still a chance, while Sam was still able to hold it off.

With a shaking hand, he flicked on the faucet. Water flowed into the bowl, swirled and eddied before scurrying down the drain with a low gurgle. The sound suggested a forming blockage within the pipes, but it was not the sound that mesmerized him, rather the viscous fluidity.

He swung around and leaned against the counter. He scanned the kitchen, the dining room, the soft sound of running water teasing his consciousness. He swallowed hard, his attention unwillingly drawn to the clock and the seconds that ticked by. Five minutes, he had already wasted a good thirty seconds.

Desperation knifed through him, demanded that he find a solution… and fast. But anxiousness squandered rationality and Dean found himself panting, on the verge of panic. Behind him the water jangled down the drain, drops of interconnected molecules, bridged ions, a liquid path of conductivity.

He twisted back, frowning as he took in the water. An idea formed. He shut off the faucet and hurried to Missouri. She sat beside Sam, the young man resting against her, his eyes closed. Dean addressed the psychic.

"Does anyone around here have a swimming pool? Large, enclosed and with a nearby power source."

She stared blankly.

"Missouri. Think. Does someone have a pond or large water feature, something close that we can get to?"

"The Brookes three houses down installed a swimming machine last summer, but it's—"

"Is it a pool?"

"Yes, for resistance swimming."

"It'll be full?"

"I'm not sure. I suppose so."

"Leave Sam. Get as many power cords as you can find and meet me at the Brookes house in two minutes."

"Dean."

"Two minutes."

She stood, wincing as she pushed herself up from the floor then hurried down the hall. Dean slipped the taser into the waistband of his jeans. He hunkered down beside Sam.

"You still with me?"

"Just."

"That's good enough. We're going to a pool party and shady there is coming with."

"Pool?"

"Water. Conductivity. Zappo."

"Zappo?"

"Trust me."

"Okay."

He pulled his brother to his feet, bracing him and wincing as Sam groaned miserably.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean whispered as he deftly snagged one of his brother's wrists, drawing that arm across his shoulder. He stooped, allowing Sam's weight to rest against his upper back before he rose, bringing Sam up in a fireman's carry. Though the heavy bracing around Sam's fractured femur protected the injury from Dean's touch, the movement still elicited a pained moan.

Dean turned to face the shadow person, holding his breath as the fiery eyes flickered. Hitching his brother up, Dean moved quickly from the house. He met Missouri at the back door. She had the power cords and a portable bar heater. They quickly moved toward the front of the house, then out into the street. The entity scuttled along behind, keeping pace as they pounded down the sidewalk.

It was broad daylight. The worst possible time to be battling the supernatural on a suburban street, his semi-conscious brother over his shoulders and a freaky black figure on their tail. But no-one noticed because there was no-one around. Dean needed that luck to hold.

He reached the Brookes' home in seconds. It stood on a double block, the single storey sprawling residence fronted by freshly clipped lawns, a fountain with a urinating boy holding a fish and ornamental roses that bordered the narrow path from the street to the inset porch. Missouri unlatched the gate. Dean surveyed the quiet street then ducked in, hurrying up the path.

Curtains shuttered the windows. No car in the driveway. All good signs, but their security system slowed Dean down. An electronic minefield that he could not afford to screw up. He fumbled and cursed, his hands shaking.

"Put me down," Sam requested softly after Dean failed for the third time to disengage the system.

"I've got it."

"No, give me a try."

"Fine." Dean gently lowered Sam to his feet then kept an arm around his waist. Sam's face was ashen, layered in a veil of sweat, his eyes slitted. "Sam," Dean started.

"I can do it."

"Five seconds. If you don't get it—"

"I'll get it."

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but the stirring hiss of rubber against pavement caught his attention. In the street, a car slowed and drew closer, still several houses away, but deliberately approaching. Dean froze and waited, his heart pounding. Missouri sidled in beside him.

"The Brookes are away for a month," she whispered.

Dean glanced at her, then back at the car. It drew to an almost stop, the nose level with the driveway to the neighboring house. The car's cab and most of the front was still out of view, which meant the occupants could not yet see them. "Stop," he said under his breath. "Just stop."

The entity cocked its head and looked to the approaching vehicle. Its eyes blinked and focussed.

"Sammy?"

"Nearly got it."

The vehicle inched along. Now the front quarter panel was visible. The Brookes' fastidiously bare front garden and piteously inadequate porch left them visibly vulnerable.

"Sammy," Dean growled.

The younger man did not respond. Dean ducked his head, checking that his brother had not passed out, but Sam was resolutely fixed on disabling the alarm system. With a final twist, a shaky jerk and a triumphant, if not pain twisted, grin, Sam foiled it. There was no time for congratulatory handshakes. Dean bundled his brother inside, tugging Missouri after him. He pushed the door shut, leaving a slit which he peered through. The entity on the outside. Beside him, Sam grit his teeth and softly keened, his hands going to his head.

"Hang on, Sam." He glanced at his brother, his heart clenching as Sam slid down the wall, his features contorted.

"It's hurting him," Missouri said unnecessarily.

Dean fisted his hands, breathing hard. The shadow person blocked the view, then moved aside, pushing into the corner, out of sight. It knew to hide, Dean realised with a stab of fear. Just how smart was this thing?

Beside him, Sam sobbed, and outside the car slowly moved past. The moment the vehicle had gone, Dean pulled Sam to his feet and hoisted him across his shoulders. "Open the door then run," he commanded Missouri.

Dean wove his way through the house, carefully navigating the narrow hallways so as to protect his brother's lanky limbs from knocks. He reached the back of the house, unlatched the door and stepped outside. It took a moment to get his bearings and to see the pool gate off to the side. He hurried toward it, unlatched it and swung it open. Missouri followed, the entity arrived a moment later. Dean carefully lowered his brother to his feet, grabbing him as Sam's knees gave out. He held the younger man up, allowing Sam to rest against him, his head on Dean's shoulder. Sam panted, his breath warm against Dean's neck.

"Sam, you still with me?"

"Yeah."

Affirmative, but entirely unconvincing. Dean carefully pushed Sam back, his grasp tight around his brother's biceps. Sam's head lolled forward and blood dripped from his nose to splatter at the ground between them. Dean fought back panic.

"Sammy, c'mon you have to stay awake."

Missouri came to stand beside him. He glanced at her. "Find power and plug those cords in."

"But—"

"Now," Dean growled.

Sam lifted his head and blearily watched as Missouri retreated. He lightly pushed at Dean, grimacing as he sought his own balance. He dazedly surveyed his surroundings, taking in the pool, the paving and the freaky entity that watched them. He finally looked across at Dean.

"I'm going to get wet?"

"Yeah, sorry."

Sam considered that, his pain bright eyes taking it all in, working it out in his mind. Dean could see his brother making the connections.

"What if it doesn't follow me in to the pool?" he finally said. "Or if it doesn't stay in there once I get out?"

"Then we're screwed," Dean said with forced lightness.

Sam ignored that. "What if the house voltage isn't enough to fry it?"

"It won't be, but it won't be enough to fry you either. It will let you break the connection without giving it a chance to go all freaky Friday on us."

"What if it doesn't?"

"You ask too many questions, little brother."

Sam shrugged listlessly, his haunted gaze shifting to the entity. "If this doesn't work—"

"It will."

"It's not worth—"

"No, Sam," he leaned in close, forced his brother to look at him. "You are worth it. Whatever it takes, kiddo. You got that."

"But—"

"No buts, no nothing. This will work. Remember, I'm one-helluva-big-brother."

Dean received no smile, no come back. Not even the requisite roll of the eyes. Instead, Sam looked up at the house and trembled, closing his eyes momentarily as though dizzied, or overwhelmed by pain.

"Safety switch," Sam said softly, his eyes reopening. "The house would have one. You have to disable it or else toasty won't toast."

"You're freakin' kidding me?"

"No."

Dean scrubbed at his face, his brilliant plan beginning to crumble. His morose thoughts were distracted by Missouri's return. She trailed an electrical cable behind her, the thick white cord snaking across the ground as she unwound it.

"That thing live?" Dean asked.

"Not yet. The switch is on the other side of that window." She pointed to the house, and the large sparkling window that looked out onto the exercise pool.

Dean took the cable, plugged in the electric bar heater and set it by the pool. Close, but not in the water. He returned to Sam, reaching the younger man as Sam tried to wipe at the blood streaming from his nose. He seemed unable to coordinate the action and instead dropped his arm to his side despairingly.

"You holding up okay?" Dean asked, realising the utter stupidity of the question as Sam again reached at the blood that leaked from his nose. The flow had increased, the color darker.

"You go inside," Sam said. He touched at the blood with a shaky hand.

"I'm not leaving you out here."

"I will draw it into the pool—."

"No."

"But isn't that your plan?" Sam looked genuinely confused.

"Basically, but it will follow _us_ into the water, Sam. I'm not leaving you out here on your own."

"I'm the bait."

"The voltage from the house won't kill it, it will only slow it down. It still has to be tasered."

"I can do that."

"Sam, you can't, you won't have the strength to get out of the pool, and that thing isn't going to be tasered until you do. Just stay here. I'll kill the electrical cut-off and—"

Sam grunted, slipped toward the ground, his back hard against the fence, his broken leg stretched out before him. He coughed, choking on blood, spatters of it striking Dean as he caught his brother and slowed the gravity fed descent.

"Sammy?" Dean said urgently, he cupped his brother's face, his fingers slicking through the viscous fluid that now poured from Sam's nose. Sam was losing it, losing control of the connection. Dean bit back a cry of denial, tensing as his brother's eyes flew open and grew wide, focused on something beside him. Dean jerked his head to the right, starting as he came face to face with the entity. It stood at arm's length, so close that the energy field tingled Dean's skin.

"What the hell?" Dean rasped.

"Plan B?" Sam asked hopefully, his voice fading.

Dean's mouth went dry. There was no Plan B.

**End Chapter Seventeen**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

_Note to readers: if you are re-reading this chapter after its initial posting in late August, then you will note that I have made several improvements. I have several people to thank, firstly those who PM'd me to say that something was missing (you know who you are and I am forever grateful), Phil (for giving this a once-over), but mostly Em who guided me through this revision process, gave me scene suggestions when my mind had gone blank and reassured me that I could (and should) do this. I hope you enjoy.  
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Fingers, as black as night and colder than the bitterest of winters, skimmed the surface of the water. Reaching and testing for weaknesses within the now eroding connection that Sam had established to hold it off. It could not yet make contact, but soon it would.

Dean's hurriedly devised plan had failed. In desperation, he had pulled his brother into the pool, the cold water shocking him and thrusting Sam into unconsciousness. The entity had followed them into the water, its jet black form seeming to coalesce with the sun sparkled liquid. It should have been over then, but like a shockingly bad horror flick there was no reprieve, no escape from the torturous responsibility Dean now had to save his brother – even if that meant killing him.

And he could. So easily. Hold him under the water, deny him oxygen. With Sam gone, the entity would kill him and probably Missouri, but the reign of horror should end there. Countless lives would be saved. Dean knew he had to do it, but he could not. Not yet. He could give up his own life, but he could not take Sam's.

Tugging at the edges of his consciousness was the realisation that he would have to. Like putting down a family pet when the future held too much suffering, Dean knew that if the entity got Sam, his brother's life would be unsurpassed misery. He could not leave Sam like that. If the roles reversed, Dean would need Sam to do it for him. But stubbornness was a Winchester trait, and Dean still believed he had a chance to make this right. At least that's what he wanted to believe. In actuality, he lacked the courage to take his brother's life. He could put a gun to his own head and pull the trigger, if forced to, but he could not do it for Sam.

Dean's entire world narrowed, became only himself, Sam and that thing. He took deliberate backward steps through the water, making ripples swash and lap against the edge of the pool. Dean held his brother against him and checked again that the hemorrhaging blood had not choked him. That would be another way to kill Sam. Hold his head back and make it impossible for him to breathe against the blood. He would choke to death in minutes.

Dean closed his eyes. Numbed by the chilling cold, the hopelessness, the responsibility. In that moment, he wished for his father. Dad had always protected them and kept them safe in even the more dire of situations. Arguably, he had often led them there in the first place, but he had always led them safely out. Dean longed for their father to launch a miraculous rescue with a need that hurt. He was ready to admit that he had failed. Willingly concede that he needed help. Right here. Right now. He would even beg. Plead. Pray, goddamn it, if it would make any difference. If it would keep Sam alive, unpossessed and safe.

But life did not play by those rules. Bad things happened and good people died. Dean knew that. He accepted it, but he refused to accept that Sam could be one of those unfortunate souls who died before their time. He clenched his jaw and scanned the edge of the pool. Missouri had disappeared into the house right after Sam had collapsed. She had not returned. Maybe she had turned tail and ran, no longer prepared to sacrifice herself to a lost cause. He hoped she had. It would not be cowardice. He hoped she understood that.

Sam moaned softly, caught deep within his own mind. Dean tensed, his gaze shifting to Sam's left hand. It had come loose from Dean's hold and now floated, palm down, a long unwrapped strip of Missouri's bandage extended out flat against the water. He had seen the psychic apply the poultice and wrap the bandage around Sam's hand and forearm. The wrapping had been secure, the fastenings tight. It could not have come undone on its own.

The entity stopped and waited, not yet courageous enough to reach out and claim its prize. Dean again checked Sam's breathing. The younger boy's head rested against his, his face tilted down. The blood from his nose made no noise as it hit the water, and for the most part, Sam stayed just as silent. Dean tightened his hold on his brother, both arms clutched around Sam's chest, keeping his head safely above water. He reached out, forced to rely on his injured arm to keep Sam against him. The resultant pain wired through him, but what he saw when he took Sam's left wrist and turned the limb over, had a far greater effect.

Across Sam's inner wrist was a long thin cut. He had not noticed it before, but he knew that it was not self inflicted. Tara must have done it while controlled by the entity. Though Missouri had not said as much, he had assumed that's how it had gone down. Dean looked up into the orange eyed monster and he knew that the fresh injury to his brother's arm was its preferred entry point. It had employed the child to do its handy work.

Bile licked the back of Dean's throat as he folded his brother's arm against his chest then wrapped both arms around him. Sam moaned again, his breath hitching on the torturous sound, but he was too weak to regain consciousness. The pitiful sound forced Dean to start moving again, gradually shifting back, one shuffled step at a time. Once he got to the end of the pool he would try to get Sam out and hope that the entity stayed in. If it did, maybe he could still taser the thing and hope that Sam was so weakened that the initial shock would sever the connection before the electricity killed him.

Dean's back nudged up against something hard. He twisted his neck, shocked that he had reached the end of the pool so soon. Breathing hard, he took in the concrete lip, the gently lapping water. He reached out, his splayed fingers searching for purchase, some way to get out of the pool without letting go of Sam.

An expanding envelope of cold made Dean shudder, and his teeth clattered loudly in his head. He looked back, startled as he came face to face with the fiery eyed entity. The movement jostled Sam, made his head fall back against Dean's shoulder.

Dean reacted immediately, his left arm rising to realign Sam's neck, straighten it so that he could breathe – so that the blood would not choke him. Then he stopped. Just stopped. His gaze locked on the shadowy black figure that now towered over them both. Dean's hand poised in mid air, then lilted and dropped. It settled just over Sam's heart.

A sense of dulled detachment came over him – a blanket of emotional disconnection so heavy that he barely recognised what he had just done. Or not done. The decision had been conscious, the action within his control. Deny assistance to his injured sibling and death was inevitable. His action, once taken was irreversible. He knew that, but he could not feel it. It had no meaning now, no reality.

He stared at the shimmering void that had caused them both so much pain. His last defiant act would be to deny it that which it truly desired. That which it needed to survive, to procreate. It would never have Sam. He wanted to take some pleasure from stealing its prize out from beneath it, but there was no joy to be found when his little brother stopped breathing.

His own pulse slowed as Sam's sped up, the younger man's body jerked as it instinctively recognised its impending demise. Dean knew that he could still change fate, could still raise Sam's head, allow him to take a breath, but he did not. Instead he stared dumbly, neutered by the clawing hand of shock, of acceptance… of defeat. As his brother slowly suffocated in his arms, Dean's eyes closed and a weight so devastating, so all consuming, smothered his own will to go on.

For him, in the end there were no tears, not even much pain, just crushing emptiness. Death would be a welcome antidote. And death is what the entity planned for him. He knew that, but still his heart raced with unwanted fight induced adrenalin as he found himself out of the pool, flat on his back, coughing up blood and mucus from a blow that he had never even felt. It should not have surprised him. The entity could move fast, but still his muddled synapses struggled to comprehend how things had changed so rapidly. He had been holding Sam….

His thoughts splintered as he found himself airborne. Gravity reasserted itself and Dean went down hard. Pain exploded through his mind. Oblivion consumed him a heartbeat later.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Missouri could not stop shaking. The violent tremor came from within, a cold aching spasm that had its epicentre deep inside and no amount of warmth would erase its effects.

She knelt at the edge of the pool beside Dean, the older boy barely conscious, bleeding from a head wound that no doubt had been sustained after hitting the edge of the pool. She had been there for less than a minute, having returned to find a scene of abject horror. After Sam's collapse, she had rushed into the house, determined to find a solution to the safety switch problem that Sam had raised. And she had, or more correctly the Brookes' contracted electrician had unwittingly done the job for her – the home undergoing partial renovations that had left one power switch unconnected to the safety circuit. Undoubtedly a violation of several building codes, but it had been a stroke of good luck. She had returned to the pool feeling vaguely triumphant, even though she had not done a thing. The sense of achievement had not lasted long.

She had managed to rouse Dean from the unconscious state she had found him in, but was making little progress beyond that. He was badly hurt, his pupils unevenly dilated, the gash to his head leaking blood to weave garishly down the side of his face.

"Honey, please, look at me." She ducked into his field of view, her chest tightening as he blinked dully. He seemed a touch more aware than he had a few seconds previously, but it was not yet enough.

She twisted to look at Sam. The younger boy was unconscious, laying stomach down, his legs in the water, one arm splayed above his head the other resting on the concrete lip. His back rose and fell as he breathed, but other than that he appeared lifeless. The entity waited behind him and Missouri suspected that it had a physical hold on the young hunter, had somehow weighted his body so that she could not pull him from the water. She also knew that the entity was responsible for the state that both boys were now in. It had thrown them from the water, knocking Dean out and leaving Sam, face down and unconscious at the edge -- still partially in the water. It was a perverse blessing, Sam would have drowned if it had left him in the pool. But she suspected that it knew that. What it had underestimated was Sam's psychic fortitude and his courage. But that was fading fast.

Her eyes stung as she turned back to Dean. "I can't get Sam out of the pool," she admitted brokenly. "I can't get him out of the water and I won't… I won't electrocute him. I won't."

"Sam?"

She sniffed, managed a haunted smile. "Yes, honey, I need you to help me get Sam out of the water."

Dean quietly absorbed the words then his eyes slid closed. He exhaled and seemed to melt against the concrete.

"Dean, no!" She shook him roughly, forcing his eyes open. He stared at her, a sudden, gnawing grief darkening the hazel-green depths.

"Sam's dead," he said tonelessly.

"What? No." She looked back at the younger boy and her breath caught. His face was turned her way, his features slack and pale. He did look dead. He really did, but his back rose and she knew he was still breathing.

She jerked as she felt a cold hand on her arm. Dean had pushed himself up. He swayed, one arm braced against the concrete, the other he had used to reach out to touch her. He slowly brought his knees up and blanched even further. One hand went to his head and the long fingers gingerly probed at the long gash. "I killed Sammy," he said woodenly, his eyes glazed.

Missouri's blood ran cold. Dean brought his tortured gaze across to meet hers. His lips drew apart and tears filled his eyes.

"Honey, no. Sam's alive. Trust me, he is, but he needs our help. You have to help me get him out of the water."

Dean's hand dropped to his lap and both arms drew around his knees. He leaned forward, groaning softly.

"Look at me." She tilted his head up with a finger under his chin. "You listen here and you listen good. Your brother is alive and he needs you."

Hope and disbelief warred for precedence in the injured man's eyes. She grasped his shoulders and gently shook him.

"Sam's alive, Dean. You have to believe me."

"Sammy's alive?"

"Yes."

Dean grimaced and squinted, then his eyes widened as he looked past Missouri. He did not say a word, just shoved past her and scrambled on all fours to his brother. He listed as he reached Sam, the rushed movement wreaking havoc with his injury compromised consciousness. She reached his side and braced him.

"Breathe, honey. Nice and slow."

He groaned then retched, gagging as he leaned against her. She felt him shaking, felt the anguish pour off him as he fought to stay awake. The fiery eyed entity in the pool watched them and trembled with an unearthly impatience.

"Safety switch?" Dean asked. He pulled away from her.

"It's been cut."

"You get the heater. I'll get Sam."

"Can you—"

"I'm fine. Go."

She did and only looked back once she had the heater held over the pool. Dean was on his knees, his brother cradled against his chest. The younger boy was clear of the water. Dean held the taser in one hand, his arm shaking violently. He looked across, his bloodied features set into a pained, but determined mask.

"Do it."

She did not need to be told twice.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam languished in a featureless plain that had no end. Blackness on all sides save for a single amorphous sphere of pure white light: his psychic centre, the powerhouse of his abilities and the very thing that the entity so wantonly desired. It hung in suspension and left nothing else in existence. Sam sensed that once there had been more, but the darkness had taken it. Devoured his self identity, ripped asunder his reason for being and left him as sole protector of that pulsing iridescent globe. The brilliant ball that the darkness pushed in on with a seething, murderous intent. Sam shouldered it out, kept it at bay, because he knew nothing else.

Until another sensation emerged and reminded him of different world in which he played a bigger role – in which he had more purpose than just to be the defender of the spherical ball. The feeling intensified, became unavoidable and Sam recognised it as pain. He struggled against it and sought purchase within the safety of his mind, but his abused physical self had other plans.

Sam came fully awake to a body that he longed to escape from. Sharp jagged edges of static drove needle-like pain through his muscles, firing his nerve endings with a vicious repetitiveness that made him moan and writhe. Another's embrace restrained his movement, made him still and pant, his face twisted into a grimace. He squinted, aware of an arm across his chest and something firm against his back. Dean, his pain addled mind provided, which explained the leather clad arm that extended beside him and the taser held in a shaking grasp. He blinked, his vision blackening as pain burned and twisted, lighting a path of fire through his weakened body and forcing his heart into a palpatory rhythm.

"Sam, cut the connection. Let go. You have to let go."

The deep timbre of his brother's voice, cauterized with fear, drummed against one ear. He understood the words, but not the significance. As his vision cleared, he gaped at the orange eyed entity that shimmered in the water less than six feet away from them. He jerked back in panic, stilled both by his brother's embrace and the thready hum of the electrified psychic connection. He panted and scanned the pool, his gaze locking on a thick white cord that led from somewhere behind and laced into the water. Comprehension tickled at the back of his mind and he forced his attention back to the humanoid form.

His muscles cramped, a tight nauseating pinch that made him arch back against his brother. Tears fell as his heart pounded wildly.

"Sam, let go. This will stop, you have to let go."

Sam believed his brother. Trusted him. So he unclamped the psychic hold he had on the entity. The pain fell away and motion erupted in a cataclysmic rush of compressed air. Dean screamed and Sam fell, pushed to the side, his face pressed hard against the cold wet concrete. He snatched the darkness back with a psychic shift so fast that his consciousness comprehended nothing other than the return of the intense tingling pain. His stomach twisted and he retched where he lay.

"Sam, oh God, Sam."

He twisted his neck and looked up as a shadow passed over him. Missouri crouched, pushed his hair back and touched his forehead. Her hand shook as her horror filled gaze centred on something over Sam's head. Sam knew he did not want to look, but he did anyway. He pushed himself up and leaned on one elbow as his vision spiralled in and out. It took a couple of wildly erratic heartbeats before he had a sense of his surroundings. Pain twisted through his chest as he took in his brother's crumpled and unmoving form at the opposite side of the pool.

"Dean," he said, his voice a strangled whisper. He pushed himself up until he sat, legs extended and his left arm behind him as a brace. He could go no further, his broken leg and the overwhelming weakness made it impossible to stand. He wet his lips and called to his brother again. His voice had slightly more strength but still the older man did not respond and Sam knew he could not. Dean had lost consciousness when he had hit the ground. Thrown by the entity in a vicious replay of the incident in the warehouse. Sam struggled with the desperation and panic that snaked through him. He had cut the connection for a fraction of a heartbeat. The electricity should have slowed the entity down.

His gaze shifted and his mouth went dry as he regarded the entity with horrified awe. The vaporous form stood in the pool, the water gently lapping and seeming to meld into its torso. It had been going to Dean, to finish him off when Sam had locked it down. Now it slowly turned and faced Sam, its orange eyes challenging. The barest edge of a victorious thrum pulsed through the connection and Sam flinched as he felt the heady emotion emanating from the shimmering darkness. It thought it could win and the evidence suggested that it could. Sam stared at the bastard and hatred so raw and vivid burned his blood and darkened his soul.

"Missouri, get back," he said, his voice treacherously low.

"Honey?"

"Now." Sam retrieved the taser that Dean had dropped. He raised it, his arm shaking. Eight feet separated him from his target. The thing cocked its head and Sam imagined it smirking. He clenched his jaw, his vision untrustworthy as his pulse rocketed against the strain of the electrified connection. He blinked sweat from his eyes and panted roughly, unable to withhold an agonised moan as his body violently objected to the pain and exhaustion.

He tightened his finger on the trigger. Movement to his right distracted him, made him lose focus. He squinted and hissed as his muscles contracted painfully. With a force of will alone, he kept his arm aloft as his gaze shifted to his brother.

Dean had regained consciousness. Tears filled Sam's eyes as he watched his brother painfully move. The older man drew his legs under him and shifted into a crouch before rocking back on his heels. He kept his eyes tightly closed, his features drawn into a tight grimace. His arm had been re-broken, Sam realised as he took in Dean's suffering. The way the older man hunched forward, his left arm cradling his right, told the young hunter all he needed to know. Sam flicked his attention back to the entity, his resolve strengthened.

"Sammy," Dean said softly, his voice taut with desperation and fear. "Don't. Please, don't."

Sam ignored his brother, steeled his jaw, checked his aim and fired. Streamer thin rails of light arced from the muzzle of the taser to the entity. The exact moment that they locked on, Sam cut the psychic connection. The electricity from the house held for the fraction of a second that Sam needed to break free. He felt a sharp sting as the taser's charge grazed his mind, then it retracted without having hurt him. The force of release ricocheted though and Sam slumped, the extinguishment of pain like an immediate anaesthetic. He fell to his side, unable to move or respond as his abused system sought equilibrium. His heart rate levelled out and his breathing eased as he heard Dean scream his name. He longed to reassure his brother, but he could not gather his addled wits well enough to communicate. He felt someone touch him and then a moment later he was pulled into a warm muscular embrace. He melted against his brother and his eyes slid closed.

"Sammy, no. Sam, please… no."

Sam felt his brother sobbing, felt Dean's embrace tighten and his body shudder convulsively. Sam forced his eyes to open. He could not see Dean's face from where his chin rested on the older boy's shoulder, but he saw Missouri. She crouched beside them and her eyes locked with his. Though he could not speak, she touched his forehead and nodded, relief lighting her eyes. She smiled and he gave in to the exhaustion again and let his eyes slip closed.

"Dean," he heard Missouri say. "Sam's fine. He's sleeping, honey, just sleeping."

As Dean's sobs eased and Sam's consciousness faded, he knew Dean understood.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean sat beside his brother's bed, his fingers locked around Sam's wrist and his forefinger on the younger man's pulse point. He had not moved from Sam's side ever since they had gotten the younger man back into Missouri's home after he and Missouri had half carried and half dragged him the short distance from the Brookes' house. Missouri had reapplied the poultice to Sam's hand, confident that the brief dip in the pool had not interfered with the healing. It would remain on for another five hours, after which time Sam could go to the hospital to have his leg checked. She assured Dean that the younger boy had not suffered any injuries that would necessitate immediate transport, but she held a different opinion about Dean's present state of health.

"You need to go to the hospital," she said for the third time as she sat beside him and gently wiped the blood from his face. "Your arm is broken and this head wound is serious."

He did not need reminding. The entity had re-broken his arm, the pain a sharp deep ache as though some freakin' bone-eating chipmunk had crawled in there with a dozen of its buddies and had commenced a furry feeding frenzy. Dean's breathing shuddered. He steadied it with an effort, and said, "I'm fine. My head has stopped bleeding."

"It needs suturing and you need a CT scan."

"I'll pass on that thanks."

"Dean, this isn't a joke."

"I'm not leaving without Sam."

"He'll be here for another four hours. You can't stay like this for four hours."

"Watch me," Dean said, a cocky grin on his lips but it twisted into a grimace as his vision blurred and sourness stung the back of his throat. He bowed his head, breathing heavily. He tensed to stand, to move, to do anything that might alleviate the pain, or at least distract him, but that meant letting go of Sam's wrist – of giving up the sensation against his fingertips. So he did not move and instead fought to stay upright and lucid, but those damned chipmunks and a rock hammering chain-gang in his head, worked against all his best efforts.

"Oh honey, please don't do this."

Dean stiffened as he recognised the pitying condemnation in her voice.

"Missouri," he said, his tone deliberately even. "I'm not leaving without him. While that poultice stays on his hand, I stay here. With him."

"You have a serious head injury."

She nudged a finger under his chin and forced him to face her. Her eyes darkened as she studied him and he pulled away, his wavering vision struggling to lock onto Sam's face. His nostrils flared as nausea surged and Dean dropped his head, closing his eyes as one foot began a desperate tapping against the carpeted floor.

"Dean, this is ridiculous. Pig-headed and arrogant, and you know it. You are so afraid of letting him down, yet this is exactly how you will do it. You know how quickly someone can die from a burst blood vessel? Is that what you want? For him to have fought so hard for you only to lose you to an aneurysm."

"Head injuries don't cause aneurysms." Dean said thickly, his brother's own words sour against his lips. Tears stung his eyes and he heard her cluck her tongue.

"No, but a second head injury in less than a month can."

"I'll take my chances."

He felt the bed rise as she stood, then he heard the keypad on the portable phone. She dialled in three numbers.

"I won't go," Dean said. "You can't make me."

"Once they see you, you won't have a choice."

"I won't consent."

"Sam will make you. By the time they get here, he'll be due to be woken again."

"Missouri," he said as he lifted his head with an effort. "Do not push me."

She glowered at him, her dark gaze burning with equal measure of fear and anger. She dipped her head to the mouthpiece and requested an ambulance.

"You just wasted your time," he ground out after she had completed the call.

"Dean, I've had about enough of this. You need to know some home truths about your condition and about Sam's."

She stalked from the room and returned a moment later with a thick hardcover book. She sat heavily beside him and Dean regarded her warily, his vision wavering. He shivered against a cold that came from deep within. Missouri glanced at him, her forehead deeply creased. He grinned and she scowled. Returning her attention to the book, she hurriedly flipped pages then sharply angled it so he could see.

"That is the maxillary artery. One branch feeds into the back of the nose."

She stabbed at a medical diagram and Dean glanced down. It took a moment for his swimming vision to focus and when it did, he swallowed hard and looked away. His stomach churned as she continued.

"The intracranial pressure that Sam endured while fighting that thing caused damage to that artery. Stopping that bleeding is damned near impossible without medical intervention. Sam's bleeding stopped. By itself. As soon as he broke the connection. The entity is dead and Sam is safe. His bleeding will not restart."

"But the blood loss."

"John really didn't teach you boys much about real medicine, did he?" She continued without allowing him to respond. "An adult can lose two pints of blood and suffer no more than weakness, dizziness and exhaustion. It is serious, but not fatal. If Sam had lost any more than that, we would know about it and he would be at hospital right now. You, however, have a serious head injury and they compound. Your pupils are unevenly dilated. You are dizzy and nauseated. I'll bet you are cold, have a monstrous headache and are struggling against double vision as well. Am I close?"

"I'm fine," Dean said unconvincingly.

"Rubbish. You are bleeding into your brain. Right now. By the time you show signs of serious trauma, I'll have minutes to get help before you are gone. Is that what you want for him? For him to wake up and find that he went through all of that only to lose you to pig-headed arrogance."

Dean's mouth went dry. He stared across at his brother, shocked to find the younger boy awake. Sam looked between them, then fixed on Dean. Puppy dog eyes, made immeasurably more powerful by exhaustion, pinned him and silently begged for him to see reason. Missouri's reason. Obviously Sam had heard enough of the conversation to take her side. Dean swore that the chipmunks in his arm and the chain-gang in his head had been hired by her as well. He had no will to fight against them all. His shoulders slumped as he gave in.

Six hours later, bedded down in a quiet hospital room, his arm re-set and bandaged and his head wound sutured, Dean struggled with panicked thoughts and mental images that he could not dispel. Staying with Sam had protected him from the memories of his brother's oxygen deprived gasps. Now being alone brought them back, made them stronger, and he had no new experiences to scour out the hideous recollections. He also fought to believe that Sam really had been okay. He had trusted Missouri and had believed her shocking display of medical knowledge, but now he was not so sure.

He twisted his free hand in the sheet, his breathing ragged. He stared at the door through which Sam would appear. He had been staring at the damned empty doorway for close on thirty minutes and he could take it no more. He clutched at the IV that fed into his arm. Sweat beaded on his skin and his heart pounded hard against his ribs. He pulled the canula and clamped down on the resultant blood. He sat up, dizzied and nauseated. He slipped his legs over the edge of the bed and groaned as his vision blackened. He managed to hold on to consciousness, just barely, but moving from the bed presented a whole other dilemma.

He braced his hands against the bed, blood smearing the sheets. He panted, his thoughts scurried and muddied, his eyes squeezed closed. This was not going to plan. Story of his freakin' life, he thought miserably.

He started when he felt a hand on his arm. "Shit, back off."

"Dean?"

"Sam?" He opened his eyes with a start, his breath catching. He blinked, wide eyed, disbelieving.

"Dude, you don't look so good."

"Glass houses," Dean murmured. He grinned then, reached out and snagged his brother's hoodie. He folded his fingers into the soft fabric. "Man," he breathed, his emotions tumultuous. He tried to pull his brother closer but he lacked the strength, and Sam seemed unwilling to be unbalanced off his crutches. Dean's fingers bunched tighter and his grin widened.

Sam cocked his head to the side. "Dean, are you okay?"

"There's two of you," he announced. And there were. Two Sam's. Two pale faced, exhausted, panda-eyed Sammy's. And they both looked so good. He clung to the pair of them with his two sets of hands. His single stomach though was not quite so appreciative of the little brother twins.

"Dude," Dean breathed. "I'm gonna puke."

If he did, he didn't remember it because he blacked out.

He came to back in the bed, a nurse hovering over him, her pretty face drawn into a frown. He peered at her name tag. "Pammy," he drawled.

"Pamela," she corrected.

"Yeah." He grinned and frowned as his head hurt. Worse than it had before. And his hand stung. He peered down at it, surprised to see the IV canula had been replaced, the wound from the last one taped. He must have been out for a while.

He turned his head to the side and found Sam beside him. "Hey," he said throatily, a smirk on his face.

Sam ignored him, his focus on the nurse. "I know the doctor said he's okay, but shouldn't he be assessed again now that he's awake?"

"Mr Packenfrack, your brother is fine, if he had followed my orders he would not have passed out at all."

"Dude," Dean said. "I'm here. Quit talking about me as though I'm three."

Sam glanced at him and huffed. "Then stop behaving as though you are. She told you to stay in bed."

"Yeah, I know that."

"Then why didn't you?"

"Got bored," Dean lied. He waggled his eyebrows, wincing as the movement pulled at the gash on the side of his face. He eyed his brother then his nose twitched against an acrid odor. "Sam, you stink."

"Really."

"Yeah. I mean, no offence, but you are rank. Did you sit in something bad?"

"You puked on me."

"Oh." He raised himself up on one elbow as he surveyed his brother. He saw that the immobilizing cast had developed a strange mottled texture. "Oh gross."

"Yeah, Dean. Gross. What the hell did you last eat?"

"Eggs, bacon and sausages." He leaned back against the pillow.

The nurse hovered for another few moments then left the room. Dean regarded her with renewed appreciation then brought his attention back to Sam.

"You seen the Doc yet?"

"No."

Dean did not ask why not. It was the same reason that the back of his hand stung and his brother reeked of regurgitated bacon, eggs and sausages. He impetuously reached out and snagged one of his brother's hands. Sam tensed and Dean stopped with his fingers partially around Sam's. He did not say a word and neither did Sam.

"Where's Missouri?" Dean finally asked after the silence had stretched for a little too long.

"Waiting down the hall."

"Why?"

"She has Tara with her."

"Oh."

"We weren't sure if you wanted to see her."

"It'd be okay," Dean lied.

Sam sighed and looked away. "Yeah, maybe."

Silence fell between them again, and still neither made a move to break apart.

"Tara's got Brigit with her," Sam eventually said.

"Who's that?"

"The pink rabbit that you bought her."

The memory made something twinge in Dean's chest. "That's good," he said, his tone deliberately neutral.

"She likes it. After the entity… well, Boris survived but all love was lost."

Dean swallowed hard. "Where is that thing now?"

"Boris?"

Dean nodded.

"Missouri burned it," Sam said.

"Salted."

"A whole packet."

"Did you see her do it?"

"Yeah."

Dean nodded his approval. Silence stretched again, the air thickening with unspoken emotion. When it had stretched for too long, Dean broke it.

"I thought we could stay with Missouri for a while longer. Maybe have more of a shot at that apple pie life you talk so much about."

"Yeah, that'd be good." Sam straightened and a crooked smile teased his lips. "But she needs a cookbook. Those muffins, man. Ought to be a federal offence."

"You volunteering to launch a civil case against her cooking?"

"Someone should."

"You could always give it a go yourself."

"So could you."

"I think not."

"Why, I think it'd do you good to get in touch with your feminine side."

"Yeah… not," Dean retorted.

"I'm just saying that maybe it'd do you good to broaden your culinary skills."

"I do just fine."

"Chocolate does not fit into the nutritional pyramid, Dean."

"The what?"

Sam chuckled. He looked up at the television, the smile widening. "There, you could do that."

Dean tracked his gaze, scowling at the portly television chef. "You want to turn me into a tubby-assed, poofy-hatted pastry-boy that bakes princess cakes for a living. You're telling me that you'd be proud to have that guy as your brother?"

Sam looked back at Dean, his emotions suddenly laid bare. Dean flinched, knowing he had just walked right into an emotional encounter with his brother that he was not prepared for. Everything was too still too raw, but there was no going back and there was no way he would cut Sam off.

"That guy would have given up on me," Sam said, his voice breathy and deep. "You didn't give up, Dean. You never give up."

Dean could not look away, trapped by the intensity of gratitude in his little brother's eyes. His chest tightened, the pain so sharp, so hard, that he could not breathe. Sam seemed not to notice.

"Thanks for getting me through," Sam said with a heartfelt gravity that whittled through Dean.

_I gave up on you._ He pressed his lips hard together, the despised admission trapped between his tongue and upper palate. He forced his eyes to widen, the burn of tears to ebb and a smile to stay plastered on his face. Sam could never know what Dean had done. Never.

Fortunately, Sam seemed equally overwhelmed and his attention drew back to the television screen, his eyes wet. He sniffed, wiped at his eyes the momentarily distraction giving Dean a chance to gain some composure. He pulled in a ragged breath and fought to steady his breathing. His fingers instinctively slipped down Sam's wrist, found the pulse point and locked on. Sam frowned, glanced at his wrist then at Dean. His lips parted in question.

"So you're not going to try to turn me into a pastry-boy?" Dean hurriedly said.

Sam's eyes narrowed, scrutinizing him, but once again fortune played in Dean's favor. Sam's spidey senses did not include mind-reading.

"It wouldn't kill you to bake a cake," Sam said.

"No, but it might kill you if you had to eat it."

"Yeah, probably." Sam shifted awkwardly, frowned then sighed. "I could sleep a month, man."

"And you can, but not before you get that leg fixed up."

"Nag, nag."

Dean shrugged, some of the tension easing away. "What are you planning on telling Archibald about what happened to the immobilizer, aside from me having puked on it?"

"I tried swimming lessons."

"Think of something smarter than that."

"Any suggestions?"

"You were in the bath. Rubber ducky attacked and made you fall."

"I was in the bath, fully clothed… with a rubber ducky?"

"You have unresolved childhood issues."

"You know what, I'll think of something."

Movement in the hallway caught Dean's attention. "Think fast Smelly Joe. Archibald has picked up your scent."

"What?"

"Samuel Packenfrack," the doctor announced as he stepped into the room. "Just what have you done to yourself this time?"

Sam's head swivelled and his jaw dropped. "Uh, ah, I—"

Dean cut in. "We had some plumbing issues at the house. A blocked drain under the bath flooded the bathroom with an inch of water. Sam, on his crutches, slipped into the tub and the mangy cat from next door flew in there with him. Kid has a thing for animals. They're attracted to him or something. Anyway, those things really do hate water, huh?"

The doctor stared and Sam blushed an interesting shade of pink.

Dean flashed a toothy grin at his sibling and continued. "As if that wasn't bad enough. The mangy feline figured out that Sam really isn't the human equivalent of kitty-Romeo and tipped the hair dryer into the tub in its rush to get out. Kitty's fine, the safety circuit cut the power, but you'll need to check out Doctor Dolittle here in case he got shocked."

Doctor Archibald raised an eyebrow, studying his now considerably quiet patient with a closer eye. "Did you lose consciousness, Sam?"

"Uh—"

"Yes," Dean answered. "That's how I ended up like this, trying to save his soggy ass. Hit my skull on the edge of the bath."

"That was going to be my next question."

"Oh, and that's my… ah… breakfast." He gestured to Sam's broken leg. "Bit of a chunder accident, sorry."

Sam, now stonily silent and his face a nice shade of red, retrieved his crutches, glowered at Dean and started to stand.

"Stay right there, I'll arrange for an orderly to bring a wheelchair down for you," the doctor said. He deftly confiscated Sam's crutches.

"I don't need a wheelchair," Sam retorted. He reached for them, stopping as Dean snagged the back of his hoodie and pulled him down onto the chair.

"Dude, enough," Sam snapped.

Dean raised an eyebrow then smiled innocently at the doctor. The man eyed them both, nodded at the nurse then left. Dean knew he would not be gone long. He leaned toward his brother, waiting until the nurse also left the room.

"Check out the nurse in Radiology, she is so your type."

"Dean."

"I'm serious. She's got that whole bookish thing going on, she will so dig you."

"No."

"C'mon, we're going to be stuck in this town for a few weeks, the least you can do is get some action. Even if you don't go the whole—"

"Dean, no. If you want to get laid, pick yourself up someone and go do whatever it is that you do, but leave me out of it. Not everything revolves around sex, you know."

"Uh, actually, the whole procreation deal is pretty much what makes the world turn."

"You don't want to procreate, you just want to have fun." He paled suddenly, his eyes wide. "You do use protection, right? There's not some little Dean Junior out there somewhere, I mean, is there? I'm not an Uncle am I?"

"Geez, Sammy, just where were you when Dad gave us the birds and bees talk? I do know what I'm doing."

"_You_ gave me the birds and the bees talk, not Dad. You told me that—" He bit off and smiled as a nurse returned to the room, nodded at them then left again.

Dean grinned, knowing where this was going.

"You said that honey would make it… you know… bigger."

Dean snorted, his eyes watering as Sam reached out to smack at him. "I didn't expect you to believe it."

"I was eleven, you asshole."

"Oh, God, that was hilarious. Remember Dad's face when he found out."

"He did not find out, Dean. You told him after you had promised you wouldn't."

"He asked where all the honey had gone. I wasn't about to lie to him."

"You are such a jerk."

Dean wiped at his eyes. "Oh yeah, happy memories."

"Laugh it up, I got you back."

"Clear wrap under the lip of the toilet seat and over the bowl. Real smart. I figured it out in time."

"You did not."

Dean arched his eyebrows. "Really now?"

Sam smirked then his mood grew somber. "I know how the entity got into the toy."

Dean floundered for a second before he caught up with the change of subject. "Boris?"

"Yeah, lightning strike. Of all the screwed up implausible things to happen, I got singled out by a crispy critter undergoing warp-speed evolution as a consequence of a billion to one event."

"Uh, back up the truck, you're losing me."

"Shadow Person plus lightening plus Tara and that damned toy."

"Huh?"

"I sensed that electricity created the entity, right. And I also sensed that it would kill it, but I didn't know how. So I talked to Tara on the way in here. She remembered Boris being struck by lightening when she was out in a park with her parents, about a week before they were killed. She walked off on her own and a shadow person snatched the toy."

"Then a storm came over and it and the toy was struck by lightening," Dean filled in. His brother nodded. "But how, that thing was all stuffing and filling, there was nothing that could have grounded the lightening. Plus, wouldn't the force have toasted it?"

"It had a voice box. You know, one of those toys that you squeeze and it makes a noise."

Dean nodded knowingly. "Oh yeah, they're evil. I've told you Sam, kid's toys—"

"Possessed, yes, I know your theories."

"Well, am I right or am I right?"

"Maybe. As for why it wasn't torched? I don't know, but I guess there's one good thing. There's no way that could ever happen again. Like, what are the chances of that even happening in the first place?"

"Gazillion to one," Dean said. He smiled, his brother watching him, seeking reassurance that what he had been through could never happen again. Dean gave him what he needed to hear.

"It is over, Sammy. The entity is gone. Forever."

Sam absorbed that, then slowly nodded. "Gazzillion to one."

"Yeah."

Sam smiled faintly and drew his attention to the television screen. He watched with a blank stare then seemed to gain focus as the television chef proceeded to stuff and slather a hapless chicken with a thick pasty goo.

"That doesn't look so hard, you know," he said after a moment.

Dean frowned. He flicked his gaze between the screen and his brother, suddenly unnerved by the interest the younger man had taken in the rotund chef.

"Sam, you can't cook," he said suddenly.

"I can."

"No, seriously, you can't."

"You're not going to bring up that Thanksgiving incident again?"

"Me, no. I didn't say a word."

Sam huffed. "Dad blew that out of proportion and you didn't help with all that whining and moaning that you did."

Dean shuddered, his stomach cramping in recollection. "You nearly killed me, man."

"You got food poisoning, it's hardly fatal. And it was not my fault."

"You cooked the goddamn thing, just whose fault was it?"

Sam scowled. He looked back at the television, his eyes narrowing. "This'll be different." he said. "You'll see."

"Famous last words," Dean murmured, his stomach fluttering anxiously. Pepto Bismol, he mentally noted. Bottles and bottles of Pepto Bismol.

Three hours later, Dean lay awake in his hospital bed, his brother sleeping in the room beside him. Sam lay on his back, lightly snoring, hooked up to monitors and IV's. His leg had been attended to, his wrist bandaged and he had been given a healthy dose of pain medication that put him out. Dean watched the younger man's chest rise and fall, the natural rhythm of breath – breath that Dean had denied him.

An uneasy sensation leeched through Dean, invaded his cells, the very molecular structure that was uniquely him. He did not even feel sick, just… changed. He had never imagined the sound of his brother dying, but now he knew it intimately. His little brother's tortured oxygen-deprived gasps had been permanently wired into his auditory nerve. No escaping the memory or the horror of it, but he vowed he would never hear that sound again. Whatever it took, he would keep his little brother safe.

**End Chapter Eighteen**

_Epilogue coming soon._**  
**


	19. Chapter 19

_Author note: Hi all, sorry it's been so long. Here's the next offering in this epic. I promised you all an epilogue: instead I will be giving you two chapters and a teeny-weeny epilogue. Here's the first of the last._

_Also, I recently revised the previous chapter (Chapter 18) to strengthen Sam's defeat of the entity and to fill in that missing gap between the pool and the hospital. Oh, and a tiny bit at the end. What happened, still happens, but better. Check it out if you haven't._

_Before I let you dive in, my thanks go to my friend (and incredible beta) Em for her support, encouragement and for making me fall in love with writing all over again. Girl, you're the best! Now, on with the story. Enjoy!_

**----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- **

**ENTITY (Chapter Nineteen)**

Sam came awake with a start, his heart wildly pounding and eyes wide. On alert, he strained against the darkness for a clue to what had woken him. He recognized Missouri's living room – the dark shapes of pictures on the wall and the sound of a clock ticking somewhere deeper in the house. He scanned, breathing hard, relying only on a pale strip of moonlight over Dean's bed that shaded the darkness to grey. Muted snuffling jerked Sam's head to the side.

"Dean," he said, his voice an urgent whisper. He pushed at the covers and rolled from the bed. Both feet hit the floor and Sam dropped into a crouch. The darkened room tainted his vision, made him vulnerable and blind as he scrambled to his brother.

"Dean." He grasped the older man's shoulder. Dean lay on his side, facing the door, his back to Sam. Sam's hand stilled as the sound came again – from Dean. Harsh and etched with pained regret – a broken, stilted sob. Another nightmare. Sam's heart clenched and he wilted, almost collapsing on his brother as he dropped his forehead to Dean's shoulder and sucked in a hard worn breath. He shuddered as the sound of his own name, whispered on nightmare soaked lips, invaded his senses and ripped through his heart.

"Jesus, Dean, this has to stop."

Sam straightened with an effort and roughly shook his brother. Dean muttered and shrugged but did not wake. The chest-deep sobs continued, wrenched from his brother's lips like blood from an arterial wound. Dean had been bleeding this way for close on eight weeks, ever since the entity's demise.

Sam shifted back and grimaced as a dull ache wormed through his left thigh. He absently massaged at the mostly healed injury and dejectedly considered his sibling, the insipid shaft of moonlight giving him a muted view of the older boy. Dean's muscular form had tangled in the sheets and blankets, one arm splayed out in an unconscious reach while the other hooked under his chin, the pose almost child like. The similarity gnawed through Sam. His brother was anything but a child, but these nightmares were methodically wearing the elder boy down.

At least Dean had not woken screaming this time, Sam thought wretchedly. It did not make him feel any better, in fact, potentially worse. He idly tugged on the bunched fabric that wrapped around Dean's chest and his hand shook as his fingertips registered the cool dampness of sweat.

His gut twisted as Dean began keening and rocking, far too much like a tormented child for Sam to withstand. Sam grasped his brother's shoulder and forcibly rolled him onto his back. Dean came awake and lashed out, one arm wildly swinging. Sam ducked to avoid a blow to the face.

"Dude, watch where you're swinging those Octopus arms," Sam said, his voice strained.

"Sam. What the hell?" Dean blinked owlishly. "What are you doing?"

"You had another nightmare."

"Yeah, so?"

"You were crying."

Dean stiffened, his lips pursed. He scrubbed at his eyes then rigidly stood and made his way to the door. "Go back to sleep."

Sam hastily pushed to his feet. "Where are you going?"

"Gotta take a leak."

"Dean, we have to talk about this."

"About me taking a leak?" Dean sounded genuinely incredulous.

"About the nightmares."

"Go to sleep, Sammy." Dean headed out into the hallway and Sam heard him quietly pad down the hall. Sam moved to the light switch and flicked it on. He blinked and hunted in his bag for a sweater, shivering until he found one and put it on. He returned to the bed, rapidly swaddled the blankets around himself, drew his knees up and waited for his brother's return.

Dean padded back into the room several minutes later. Sam's hands fisted as he took in the dark smudges under Dean's eyes, the wounded stoicism that pursed the older boy's lips and the brittle way that he moved. Like he could break at any moment. Sam had no doubt that he could.

"Dean, we have to talk."

"Later." Dean flicked the light off.

"That means never."

"Same difference." Dean moved to the bed and slid under the covers.

Sam hunched further into the blankets and squinted into the shadowed darkness. "What is the nightmare about?"

Dean worked on straightening the tangled sheets and blankets.

"Sam, go to sleep. The Hansen's are coming today and you've got to do that whole chef thing you've been perfecting for weeks. I don't want food poisoning because you're half asleep."

"We have to talk about this, before we leave here, before we get back into hunting. You still want to leave the day after tomorrow, right?"

"Yes, so get some sleep." Dean lay back and rolled away from Sam.

"Dean—"

"Sam, enough."

"No, I don't think so." Sam threw the blankets aside, stalked to the door and flicked on the light.

"Dude, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me? Now that's rich." Sam rooted around in his bag for his phone. When he found it, he snatched it up and jabbed at the keypad.

"Sam, what are you doing?"

"Messaging Dad."

Dean sat bolt upright. "What? Why?"

"Because, maybe he can talk some sense into your thick skull." Sam bowed his head and worked on the message. "If he even gives a shit about us anymore."

"We've been over this. It's not safe."

"If it's safe enough for us to hit the road, it's safe enough for Dad to call. It's been three months since you left him a message from the hospital. Three months, Dean and no contact. At all. We might as well be freakin' dead for all he cares."

He punched the send button and flung the phone atop the clothes in his bag. "Well you know what? This corpse just sent him a message. Let's see how he takes to that."

He ignored his brother's appalled expression and stalked down the hall. The cell phone rang as Sam reached the kitchen door. He spun on his heel and ran back, heart pounding as he saw Dean retrieve the cell. The older man's face paled as he took in the display.

"It's Dad." Dean said. He clutched the phone in a white knuckled grip as a desolate, haunted look crossed his face. Sam pitched forward, fretfully reaching for the device as it rang for the third time. Dean fended Sam off with a wild wave of his arm and answered the call.

Sam moved back and clutched at the door jamb, his heart pounding as his brother conducted a monosyllabic conversation with their father. Sam could barely bring himself to watch as Dean wiped at his eyes, his voice quavering as he offered verbal reassurances about his state of health. Obfuscation webbed with platitudes and outright lies. But Sam suddenly cared less about forcing Dean to deal with his emotional meltdown than in hearing his father's voice. Until John was right there, so close, Sam had not realized he needed him. He leaned heavily in the doorframe, shivering as Dean bowed his head, hiding his eyes. Sam's fingers twitched as he waited his turn.

"Yes sir," Dean finally said and he thumbed the end call button.

Numbing cold closed around Sam as his brother dropped the phone into his lap. Sam's twitching fingers stilled and a cold blade of hurt grief sliced his insides. He tried to say something, but could only stare, his strangled thoughts disjointed, the pain so complete that it bore no words. He physically flinched when Dean stood, handed him the phone and left the room. Sam stared at the blank screen then at his brother's retreating back.

"Dean?"

Dean stopped partway down the hall, one hand braced against the wall. He kept his back to Sam and said, "He'll call you. Safer. Harder to trace."

"What… when… what did he say?"

Dean shook his head and kept moving. He disappeared into the kitchen.

The phone rang for a second time and Sam's heart jolted. He answered with trembling fingers, but could not get his tongue to form words.

"Sam? Is that you? Sammy?"

Sam struggled to respond to the raw desperation that flooded the connection. He floundered beneath the emotional onslaught, his own need both negated and intensified in a jumbled cornucopia of images, feelings and thoughts. He slid to the floor, his head bowed and tears burning. The irony hit him then. He had called his father for Dean, but it was he who had needed it the most.

"Sammy, are you there?"

"Yeah," Sam managed as his voice broke. He closed his eyes. "God, Dad…." He swallowed convulsively, his free hand gouging into the almost healed muscle of his thigh. He stopped as pain flared.

"Son, it's so good to hear your voice."

"Where were you?" It came as an accusation and Sam opened his eyes, regretting the terseness of it, the bitter edge of contempt, but he did not regret the need. "Dad?" he asked when the silence extended a beat too long.

"I couldn't come, Sam. I wanted to. God, you can't know how much." John inhaled sharply then released an unsteady chuckle, the awkward sound of long overdue relief. "You know I love you boys. This… it's been killing me."

Sam nodded. His mouth drew down and he absently plucked at lint on his sweat pants. "Where are you now?"

The line fell silent and Sam pushed the phone harder against his ear, his heart aching with a need that he could not even define.

"Dad?"

"It's not safe. I wish. God, son, I…."

"Dad, please, let us come. Let us help. It'll be different, I promise. Dean and I, we can watch your back. Nothing will get the drop on us again, I swear."

"No. You boys look after yourselves. Each other. You hear me."

"Dad."

"Sam," John's tone hardened. "I've given you an order. You and your brother stay safe and do not look for me. Do you understand?"

Sam's anger sparked. "Dad, no—"

"Sam."

Sam bowed his head, instinctively stiffening. He pressed his lips together and breathed hard through his nose. Anger and hurt warred and effectively scrambled his thoughts.

"Sammy, please."

It was a momentary weakness, a whispered plea that Sam rarely heard from his father. His head jerked up and he blinked.

"Dad?"

"You and Dean, you're all…." A long pause, then John's voice again hardened. "You stay safe, son. Both of you."

"Yes sir."

The call disconnected and Sam pulled the phone away from his ear. He stared at it, his hand shaking. His vision blurred and the phone became a shimmering shapeless mass. He wiped at his eyes and drew in a long, steadying breath. His fingers tightened around the phone, the relief and comfort warmed him while frustration and anxiousness needled just below the surface.

Sam's mouth drew down, he kept the phone in his hand, aware that when they did eventually meet up, Sam had a whole world of explaining to do. Visions, an entity that had murderously sought to use him as a host and freakishly powerful psychic abilities that he had called upon to ultimately defeat it. He fingered the phone, able to do so because those abilities had enabled his hand to be healed. As new. No pain, loss of sensation or even scarring. Those very same abilities had attracted the freakish bastard in the first place. He could hardly be thankful for them.

His stomach twisted. He abruptly pushed to his feet, tossed the phone in his bag and made his way down the hall. He found Dean seated at the dining room table, in the dark, his shoulders hunched and his head down. Sam watched him, afraid to go to him but afraid not to.

"He hacked into the hospital's database and kept tabs on us." Dean said quietly. "The ICU, general ward and even the physiotherapy. He knew we weren't dead. He knew we would call when we were ready to move on."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, course." Dean straightened but did not turn. "Must have been hell. Reading all that medical mumbo jumbo. God knows how he made any sense of it."

They both knew their father would have researched until he understood every single gut wrenching word. Sam moved to the table and pulled out a chair. He touched his brother's shoulder but Dean shrugged him off. Sam hugged his arms around himself and sat heavily.

"What else did he say?" Sam asked tentatively.

"Not much."

Dean looked down and in the darkness Sam could no longer see his face. It made him ache. Speaking with their father had meant to make things easier, help Dean to deal with whatever demons haunted him, but Sam saw that it had not. Maybe it had made it worse. Dean's guilt was out of context and out of proportion. Sam did not understand why and he wished to hell that it did not matter. But it did.

**----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- **

Dean shadowed Missouri, sliding furniture into place and lifting the heaviest of items as per her instruction. She had decided to leave Sam entirely in charge of the lunch preparation for the Hansen's visit while she redesigned her sewing room following Tara's departure. The kid had been gone for close on eight weeks, and Dean wondered why on earth this day had been the one chosen for house redecoration, but Missouri was Missouri. He left it at that.

"Well, that looks pretty," she said. She stepped back to admire the neatly straightened room.

Dean shrugged. "Pastel's really aren't my thing."

Missouri chuckled as she moved to the dresser, the only item that had not been moved, shuffled, moved and shuffled again. Dean eyed it warily. Solid oak and bound to weigh more than a small elephant, he did not look forward to hauling its ass around the room.

She pulled the top drawer open and withdrew a small timber box, her fingers folded around it with a reverence that told of great loss. Dean's gaze danced between it and Missouri's face as he sought to understand the significance. The stout black woman bowed her head and closed her eyes, her lips silently moving in a whispered entreaty. She placed the box on the table beneath the window, then turned to face him. Tears stood in her eyes. Dean's his breath caught and the cold predawn of understanding made him tense.

"He would have been proud of Sam," Missouri said. "Of you both for what you did for Tara."

"You've got to be kidding me," he said in a strangled whisper.

"He would not have blamed her. I don't blame her. You shouldn't either."

He stared at the box – at the remains of Marcus Jennings – the psychic who had ultimately saved Sam's life by giving the young hunter the psychic tools he needed to defeat the entity. He suddenly felt sick. He twisted on his heel and headed for the door .

"Honey, don't go."

He stilled, his hands fisted.

"She is a child. An innocent that was used by evil for evil. She had no way of stopping it, of protecting herself or you boys. What she did was not her fault. You have to know that."

Dean kept his back to her, his breathing harsh. The child had slit Marcus' throat with a butcher's knife. There was no innocence in that.

"Sit down, honey." Missouri touched his arm. He jerked back and her hand fell away. "Dean, I know you're hurting, so--."

"I'm fine."

"Then you won't mind sitting with me for a bit."

He glanced at her, then mechanically moved to the bed. He deliberately sat at arm's length, his gaze fixed forward and shoulders tense.

"I don't blame Tara," Missouri started softly. "It was not her fault. None of this was. The entity used her – made her a victim."

Semantics, Dean thought sourly. He tugged at a loose thread in the hole in his jeans, his fingers twitching and jerking as he fought the almost overwhelming urge to flee the room.

"I could fix that for you."

"Meant to be that way," he said tersely. He pulled in a shaky breath and flattened his palms against his thighs, his biceps burned as he straightened. He looked toward the window. To Sam. He could not see his little brother without first seeing the box containing Marcus' ashes. His stomach twisted and he tore his gaze away. "I thought he had family."

"No. He was somewhat of a loner, his beliefs and abilities set him apart. As did his clothes." She paused, took a breath then quietly continued. "He thought very highly of both you boys. Of what you do and who you are."

"This is the part where you tell me he had some terminal disease and that the kid did him a favor," Dean said churlishly.

"No. Healthy as an ox and just as stubborn. He died before his time, no doubt about that. But his death was not in vain. If he had not been here it would have been me. Then I would not have found you boys at the warehouse. We both know how that would have ended."

"That does not make his death acceptable."

"No, but sometimes things happen for a reason. Or at least it helps to make sense of them."

Dean ran his hands across his thighs, the palms cold and sweaty. He shook his head and tensed to stand.

"It wasn't Tara, Dean. It was never her. She is just a child with powers that she does not understand and an unfortunate set of circumstances that created something she could not control. Marcus would want you to understand that."

Dean doubted that Marcus would have understood it himself, let alone expect anyone else to, but he kept those thoughts to himself.

"She lost her parents. She idolizes you and your brother. The Hansen's are bringing her back across three states so she can say goodbye to you both. This is a big thing for them all." Her tone softened. "This will be the last time you see her, honey, try to give her something to hold on to. If not for yourself, or Sam, then for Marcus."

He wanted to say that Marcus was dead. His bones burned and his soul extinguished, but clearly Missouri believed otherwise so he buttoned his lip. The purring of an engine pulled Dean's attention to the window.

"They're here," Missouri said.

Dean stepped over and pulled the curtain back a little so he could see. Frank Hansen appeared first, a fatherly and bullish man with barely controlled auburn hair and a slight lilt to his step. Just as Dean remembered him from two months before. The man's wafer thin wife, Lauren, joined him a moment later, Tara in tow. She held the stuffed pink rabbit Dean had bought her.

He stiffened when he saw the child and automatically looked to his brother. The younger man fussed with the grill, clearly unaware that company had arrived. He turned when Frank had almost reached him. His eyes widened and his face split into a dimple inducing grin. Sam pumped the older man's hand, warmly greeted Lauren then looked down at Tara. Dean's breath held.

"Honey, it's over," Missouri said.

Dean ignored her, his gut twisted in fear. When Sam's smile faded, Dean moved. He had reached the door when Missouri snagged his jacket.

"Dean, don't."

Dean glanced back at the window. He could still see the group through the small panes. Sam had stooped forward, animatedly talking to Tara. He took something from her and Dean recognized the pink stuffed rabbit. His skin prickled and he broke free from the psychic and hurried toward the rear door.

Dean barreled into the yard, his dramatic entrance bringing Sam's gaze up. Their eyes locked and Sam cocked his head to the side, his blue-green eyes darkening in concern. Dean slowed his pace, adopting a feigned casual air as he joined the small group.

"Dude, you fraternizing with the company while you're meant to be cooking. He's the catering department," he said nonchalantly as he nudged in between his brother and Tara. He shot the Hansen's a mesmerizing smile. "Did he tell you that?"

"Tara tells me that Sam is a splendid cook," Lauren said. She rested a hand on Tara's shoulder, her eyes sparkling as she looked down at the child.

"Yeah, he is." Dean ignored his brother's raised eyebrows. "But he works better without distractions. So, how about you head over to the table and get comfortable. Jamie Oliver here can do his thing."

"I wanna help Sam," Tara piped up.

"Yeah, that'd be—" Sam started.

"No," Dean said. He forced the sharp edge from his voice and maintained the blinding smile. He addressed Tara directly. "You know why, because you're the special guest of honor today. You don't need to lift a finger to help. In fact, we would be offended if you tried."

"But—"

"Dean is right, honey," Missouri said as she joined them. "You go and sit with your mommy and we'll bring everything right to you."

"Well, we can't be arguing with that now can we," Lauren said with a smile. She brushed a hand across Tara's head, her eyes slightly moist. She sighed softly, the tone of contentment -- of unashamed love. Dean looked away.

"How about you two ladies go and make yourselves comfortable and I'll help Sam with this grill," Frank said. As Sam opened his mouth, the older man held up a hand. "Consider me your apprentice chef. I know a professional when I see one. And if this meal is anything like that roast you put together, well, I'm not about to interfere with the master."

Sam blushed and ducked his head. "I'm not quite sure—"

Dean lightly rubbed the back of his brother's neck. "The man knows a good thing when he tastes it, bro. Accept it."

Sam's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. The brief flash of something close to shock disturbed Dean, but it passed and Sam huffed and returned to the grill. He passed a second set of tongs to Frank and started about instructing him on how to get the perfect level of heat.

Dean glanced at the laptop that sat open beside the grill, the screen clearly displaying the secrets that Sam now shared with Frank. The younger man had learned them off the internet that very morning, and seemed entirely unfazed that everyone could see the shallowness of his professionalism. As though to highlight the fact, Sam stepped to the laptop and scanned the luminated text.

"We can put the meat on once the flames are gone." He frowned and studied slightly smoking grill. "What do you think?"

"I'm the apprentice, remember," Frank reminded. His eyes shone as he winked at Dean. "It's your call."

Sam glanced at the older man, his expression perplexed, then his gaze slid to the women at the table and his frown deepened. He returned to the laptop and re-read the screen. "We'll give it another five," he said after a few moments. He straightened. "You grab the meat from the kitchen. Dean will show you where it is."

Dean took the cue and led the older man toward the house. He hesitated at the door and observed the three women at the table. Missouri had joined Lauren and both were now engaged in entertaining Tara. The child seemed to have forgotten all about Sam, and even the rabbit had been discarded in preference for the attention of her female companions.

"She's an amazing child," Frank said softly. "After Lauren's accident we thought…." He cleared his throat. "It all took some getting used to."

Dean knew he meant his wife's psychic abilities. "Lauren would have always had them. The near death experience just uncovered them."

"I know, it wasn't that. I had always known she was special. But the accident took away…." His voice broke.

"Kids," Dean completed softly.

"Yeah. Hardly a choice really. I was not going to lose her."

"You could have always adopted."

"The ability of the adoptive mother to randomly move objects may have set some adoption agencies ill at ease."

"She's getting that under control."

"Yes."

"If things don't work out with… you know. Missouri will help out," Dean said.

"Tara is psychic, like Lauren. It will work out. We will make it work."

"I know you will, but if anything comes up that you can't handle. You call Missouri."

"We will."

Sam turned then and he frowned as he saw that his apprentice chef had shirked his duties. He did not berate the guest though, he went right for Dean. "Dude," he said. "Meat. You know. Dead animal. Now."

"Talk to Frank, not me."

"Dean."

"C'mon, let's not irritate the chef. It could get ugly," Frank said.

"Oh yeah, it could," Dean said in agreement. He showed Frank to the fridge and waited as the older man collected the meat tray. Dean grabbed a six pack of beer and followed Frank outside. He passed one of the bottles to his brother, another to Frank and took one for himself.

He stood back as Sam and Frank arranged the first batch of meat on the grill. Frank allowed Sam to direct him, even quietly accepting the younger man's clumsy instructions to reposition the meat several times until they seemed to be right back to where Frank had initially placed them.

"I think that'll work," Frank said as Sam stepped back. "You've got a real keen eye for this."

Sam huffed, his eyes narrowed as he scanned Frank's face and then Dean's. Neither man allowed a hint of scorn or derision to show and Sam seemed to relax. "Team effort," he said. He reclaimed his seat. Dean watched him but did not say anything. Instead, he fingered the unopened beer in his hand. His attention drifted back to the women at the table and eventually rested on Tara.

"You boys are heading off soon, so Missouri tells me."

"Yeah, day after tomorrow," Dean said. "We've outstayed our welcome here. It's Sam's fault really, he keeps taking over her kitchen and outshining her."

"Domesticated, is he?" Frank said around a grin.

Dean shrugged and took a drink of his beer as the conversation settled into an easy rhythm. From little brother ridicule it shifted to cars, music, sport, onto girls and then back to sport. Somewhere along the way, the meat grilled to perfection and their conversation moved to the table.

They ate and talked and ate some more. Sam beamed with every compliment and Dean worried about the size of his head. He whacked it once, just lightly, to be sure that it didn't explode. That earned some laughter and a grumpy retort from his brother.

The casual lunch came close to normalcy, even apple pie normalcy, and Dean surprised himself by enjoying it. Then came to an end and Sam stood and began to tidy up.

"Sam, leave them," Missouri said.

"It's no trouble."

"There will be trouble if you try to help," she said sternly. "The person who cooks does not clean up. That's the rule and you know it."

Sam huffed, his attention drawn to Lauren as she seconded Missouri's statement.

"Let this be a measure of our appreciation for a wonderful meal," she said as she stacked the plates into neat piles. "Anyway, Tara has something she wants to give you."

All eyes drew to the eight year old and the girl blushed. "I made you something," she said shyly. "It's in the car."

Dean's skin prickled as Sam smiled and extended a hand toward the girl.

"Then I guess I'd better go see then."

Dean drew in a breath in preparation to intervene.

"Dean," Missouri said. "Would you mind helping Frank with the grill. It needs to be cleaned down."

Dean glanced at Missouri, his pulse quickening. She smiled warmly, but her eyes held a cautioning intensity. He ignored her and flicked his gaze back to Sam. The younger boy had not noticed the interplay and had taken Tara's hand in his own. He leaned down and whispered something into Tara's ear. The child giggled and moved closer. They started toward the gate.

Dean stepped forward, stilled by Missouri's hand on his arm. The contact had a persuasive firmness to it.

Sam and Tara had reached the midpoint of the yard. The child laughed again and Sam's throaty chuckle echoed across the space. The rattle of plates, glasses tinkling together and Frank's deep voice as he murmured to his wife sought to distract him. Dean growled and pulled away. He strode across the lawn and reached the gate at the same time as Sam and Tara had. They turned toward him and Sam's face brightened.

"Hey, thought she had you on grill duty."

"No. I mean, yeah." He flashed a false smile at the child. "So, whatcha got for Sam?"

He felt Sam stiffen and deliberately avoided eye contact. He focused on Tara, his breath catching a little as she smiled shyly and curled warm fingers around one of his hands.

"I hope you don't think it's stupid," she said. Her tone grew apologetic and Dean suddenly felt uncomfortable, irrational even.

He worked hard to keep the smile in place, his steps wooden as she tugged them both to the car. She let go and pulled the rear door open. She retrieved something and pushed it behind her back.

"Mommy got it covered in plastic for me. She thought you might want to keep it, so…." she blushed and tugged on her lower lip. She looked up at them hopefully, then brought the laminated paper forward and dubiously considered it. Her shoulders sagged. "It doesn't really look like…."

"I'm sure it's beautiful."

She looked up at Sam, then back at the paper. "I made your hair too short."

"He needs a haircut anyway," Dean said weakly. He ignored Sam's searching look and stepped forward. He crouched beside the girl but deliberately avoided taking an angle that would enable him to see the picture. He struggled against his conflicting emotions as he considered this small person, the clear need in her eyes for acceptance, for love, for some way forward from the horror she had endured. He fought the memories, the sounds that haunted him, the connections that all came back to this one child. Wide eyed and innocent, scarred enough to never again be lost in naivety, yet powerful enough that she had been used to almost destroy his little brother.

His hand shook as he touched the top of the laminated paper. "Can I see?"

She regarded him with wide blue eyes. "If it's really bad, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

"It won't be bad."

"But if it is?"

"It won't be. You made it. It won't be bad."

Her lower lip quivered and she stared deep into his eyes. Dean held the gaze, his heart beating fast. It was over, he reminded himself. All over.

She broke the contact and pushed the picture at him. She hung her head and waited for his assessment. He took in the image and his breath snagged as pain caught across his chest. "It's beautiful," he said tremulously.

In fact it was not. But the innocence of the eight year old's pencil drawing of herself, Sam and Dean hammered home to him that the evil in this child had died weeks before. No shred of it lingered.

"You're an artist," Dean said thickly. He passed it back. "Sam will like it. You need to show him."

"I want him to remember me. I don't want him to forget."

"He will never forget."

"I know. He will remember the bad stuff. The bad things that I did."

Dean swallowed convulsively and his chest tightened. "It wasn't you. Something bad made you do it, but now it's dead and it won't ever come back."

The words rang in his ears, pounded hard through his veins. Until he had uttered them, he had not truly believed. Now he did, and he felt like an ass for having considered this child to be a threat. He straightened and felt his brother's eyes on him, the warm questioning concern. Pity even, he averted his gaze, unable to see that particular emotion in his brother's eyes.

"I'd better do the grill," he said, his voice a little too weak – unhinged. He corrected the tone and continued. "Might need it later if the Hansen's want to stay over."

"I thought you didn't—"

"You've got to stop thinking, Sammy. It's not good for you."

Sam huffed and scuffed at the dirt, a half smile on his lips. "Jerk," he said softly.

"Yeah, whatever. Don't stay out here all afternoon, the neighbors will get the wrong idea about you two."

It sounded lame, inappropriate, and Sam raised an eyebrow. Dean ignored it. He returned to the yard, the dirty grill, the casual conversation and the pretense of normalcy.

Later that night, long after the house had cooled with post-midnight silence and the moon rose and traveled the night sky, Dean lay awake. On his back, his hands clenched and eyes wide, he stared into the darkness and defied the thoughts and fears that shimmied just below the surface of his consciousness.

Moonlight sharpened the shadows, made the ornate carving of the ceiling rose above him stand out as bulbous misshapen orbs. Malevolent supernatural beasts, his overwrought mind interpreted. He rolled to his side and exhaled a shaky, spent breath. He eyed his brother's back. Sam faced away from him, the blankets and sheets pulled up tight. The younger boy seemed to feel the cold more than he used to – or was it just that Dean now paid more attention.

He pondered that, his fingers clenching and releasing the blankets in his grasp. He noticed a lot of things about his kid brother. Like the way Sam tried to cover his pain and rarely succeeded. Dean had always known when the younger boy was hurting, but now Dean seemed instinctively attuned to his sibling – always wary for anything that could bring Sam pain – and determined to circumvent it before it did.

He had been Sam's protector from the moment the boy had been born. Something about big brothers and little brothers, he had always thought – or the way his father had thrust the too quiet infant into his arms the night their mother had been killed. He had been strong then and strong since. But now Dean had to be stronger than ever before. The entity had shown him how he could lose Sam. Nightmares tortured him with a myriad of other ways that evil could destroy his little brother, and Sam's abilities put him in the path of evil in a way neither of them had ever imagined.

Sam shifted in his sleep and Dean pushed himself up in preparation to go to his brother, but Sam simply rolled onto his back then stilled. Soon he began snoring and Dean lay back, his heart beating too fast, his over tired mind growing foggy. He fought off the exhaustion and whispered an assurance that only he could hear.

"Nothing will ever get you, Sammy," Dean said, his voice a low pain-etched whisper. "I swear I will keep you safe."

The darkened silence devoured his words, consumed them with an indifference that left only the truth as a distant echo through his mind. The desolate resonance bladed the young hunter – left him hurt and gasping. One day Dean would drop his guard, be too slow or too tired to maintain his vigilance and Sam would be on his own: alone and defenseless. Easy pickings. On that day Sam would die.

** End Chapter Nineteen.**


	20. Chapter 20

AN: Here's the last chapter of this epic (bar the epilogue). Once again, my heartfelt thanks go to my beta and friend Em (A-blackwinged-bird) for all that she does. Now, without further ado...

**ENTITY (Chapter Twenty)**

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

_Dean sat on a step in a dark stairwell. Water lapped beneath his feet. Crept slowly upwards to soak the cuff of his jeans where they sat against the bottom step. He sidled up one rung, a cold sensation wiring through him as the water matched his movement. He repeated the action and once again the water clung to his ankles. He looked down. Blood laced in curdled circles around his feet. His eyes widened as he recognized the viscous fluid. He twisted and clambered, pistoning up the stairs on all fours. Higher and deeper into the darkness. Light at the head of the stairwell urged him on. _

"_Sam," he called urgently. "Sammy."_

_He reached the top of the stairs. Stumbled into a large room, sunset orange light bathed the unfurnished floor. The brick walls shone red and dust motes danced like fireflies in the shadows. The sense of déjà vu unnerved him. Something had happened here – something bad. _

_Dean's stomach fluttered. Water lapped against his ankles. Blood swirled through the clear liquid – bloodied fingers through cream. He heard a thud, a gurgled, gasped sound and the water ran red. _

_Dean lifted his head and hugged his arms around himself. Sam lay unconscious on the floor. Eyes closed, chest bare, limbs misshapen. Blood stained the younger boy's left shoulder, an open wound that pulsed blood down his side in thick rivulets. Bone protruded from the meat of his left thigh. Dean gagged and fell to his knees. Water spun webs around his fingers, caressed the back of his hands. Blood trails traced molecular paths between the digits. _

_He scrambled to his brother and grunted with the effort to pull the limp form against his chest. Sam's head lolled back to rest against Dean's shoulder. The movement exposed Sam's throat and Dean saw the blood then, dark and fresh on his brother's upper lip. Dean tensed, not quite understanding. Sam's heart-rate increased. Within seconds it thumped out a desperate, panicked staccato against his own. A tortured, gurgling sound emitted from the wounded boy's too pale lips. _

"_Oh God, Sammy." Muscles burned as Dean sought to realign Sam's neck to allow him to breathe. Despite the neural commands, his arms did not move. Panic surged as Sam suffocated. Helpless to prevent it, Dean began keening as the younger man's breath became gurgles, then not even that. The water rose higher, red and dark with blood. So much blood. _

_The scene changed and the air grew impossibly colder. Sam walked ahead, his lanky form and broad shoulders paving the way. Dean struggled to keep up. He needed to be ahead of Sam, protecting him, but the air had become quicksand and his limbs failed to keep the pace. Sam seemed unable to hear Dean's plaintive cries to slow down. Dean's heart pounded wildly, his skin slick with sweat, the iced air making him shudder. He peered into the grey surroundings but saw nothing. Absolutely nothing. _

_The cold intensified. Dean's pulse accelerated. He reached through the formless quagmire for his brother. Too far away. He called. Sam turned, wide eyed, confused… vulnerable. _

_Shadows formed behind Sam. Coalesced and took shape. Dean screamed a warning as a beast erupted from the void. Coal black with burning orange eyes. Talons flashed and Sam fell._

_Dean pitched forward, screaming. Held back by an unseen force. Rendered ineffectual. Weaponless. _

_Sam let out a blood curdling yell. It cut off at mid point – violently severed. Blood sprayed Dean's face, coppery and warm. Sam's blood. It filled his mouth, stung his nostrils and drenched his hair and face. _

_The creature stepped to the side then morphed into the form of a faceless man. It pulled the mortally wounded hunter upright, held him against gravity as his blood stained the floor red. Sam's arms hung limp at his sides and his stomach…. Oh God, his stomach. _

_Dean whimpered. The faceless figure fisted a hand in Sam's hair and wrenched his head back. Sam's pain dulled eyes met his and Dean saw the light fade as death claimed its prize._

Dean burst awake, panting a numbing monologue of apology. He twisted in the sheets, then fell, landing hard on his side. The brightness of the room momentarily blinded him and he blinked stupidly. He felt a touch on arm and jerked back, breathing hard as he stared up at his brother – his very much alive brother.

"Oh God, Sammy." Dean wilted, the vestiges of the nightmare still raw and fresh.

"You wanna—"

"Talk. No."

Sam frowned, his lips tightened and he nodded. "I'm gonna get a workout in before the Hansen's get up. Want to join me?"

Dean ran a treacherously shaky hand across his face and squinted at the clock. "Yeah, give me a minute."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Sam led his brother into the gym. The first patrons there. The place to themselves. The manager nodded at them, considering them regulars. Sam hit the free weights while Dean took one of the bikes. They worked through a cardio and weight routine with barely a shared word, but Sam sensed a break in his brother's routine at the same time as his own gaze drew to the empty spare of floor at the end of the gym.

"You up for it?" Sam said.

Dean shrugged. "No one else here so might as well."

Sam toed off his shoes and socks and moved to the far end of the gym. Dean followed. Interconnected mats tiled the floor, slightly resistant to pressure and cool against his bare feet. Sam paced the floor, testing it, getting a feel for the space, the distance, the surface. Dean did the same. They worked in silence, each seeking their own inner balance and calm.

Sam overtly watched his brother as Dean prowled with a raw energy and adrenaline, claiming the floor as his own. It reassured Sam, made him want to believe that Dean's nightmares would end once they hit the road. If vivid dreams had been the only clue, Sam could have remained in the slurry of denial. But they were not. Dean had become increasingly protective – almost locked at his hip – a quiet, suffocating presence. Annoying, but tolerable. However, one subtle difference evidenced an inherent transformation. Ever since the entity's destruction Dean looked at him differently – or not at all. The shared glances and silent communication that defined their bond had gone. Of all the things that Sam imagined the entity could destroy, that had not been one.

Sam absently clutched at his cotton t-shirt. It hung loose on his frame, soft and worn. His fingers twisted in the fabric, the long digits prickled with a chilled urgency. Dean had shut down all attempts to talk about it. Whatever _it_ was. Dean reassured him that nothing was wrong bar the broken sleep. Physically, Sam agreed. Psychologically, Dean was anything but. They could not return to hunting like this and with Dean's insistence to leave Missouri's the following day, Sam had only one possible solution left: sparring.

Sparring had always been their leather couch – psychological re-wiring when emotions ran out of control and words gave no comfort or resolution. Aggression and confusion beat out in the safety of an open floor and inherent trust. When they went hard – equally matched and not holding back – they reconnected. Now more than ever they needed to reconnect.

Dean moved to the centre of the mat. He flexed and stretched – corded muscle tight within tanned forearms. He took up the initiating stance, off-centre, left hip forward and feet firmly locked. Sam did the same. Their eyes met. Dean's skipped away, unable to hold, unwilling to lock.

"Go hard," Sam said, his voice firm while his insides churned.

Dean stiffened and acknowledged the words with a curt nod. Sam rubbed one handed at his gut, trying to massage out the knotted tension. His heart-rate picked up as he shifted into stance.

They began – a fumbled dance of strength and power that lacked the synchronicity that usually defined them. Kicks and punches fell too short. Shadow boxing without the grace and fluidity born of practice and shared understanding.

Sam's muscles warmed and his anxiousness heightened. He instigated tighter moves, sharper actions with increased force in an attempt to get the response he needed. Dean blocked – defense after defense that begged an offensive attack. It never came.

Sam backed out, circled and bought a momentary reprieve. "Don't hold back," he reminded. He wiped his palms on his thighs, slicked off cold nervous sweat. Dean nodded, again accepted Sam's words, though he kept his eyes lowered. Not submissive – Dean would never be that – but changed. It roiled Sam's gut.

They moved back in, graceful and powerful – but the dynamic remained unchanged. Sam shunted forward, aimed a jab at Dean's face that missed. He deliberately foiled his retreat and left himself wide open. Dean ceded the opportunity and Sam's skin crawled. His last ditch effort began sparking with embers of impending catastrophe. He kept in motion, barely breaking a sweat as their dance of denial continued. The greasy wheels in Sam's mind slithered toward bitter acceptance of the truth: his brother had become a stranger – a loyal, courageous, gut-wrenchingly overprotective _stranger_.

Sam clenched his jaw, shifted his weight and launched a forward kick to his brother's chest that punched the older man to the floor. Dean went down hard, splayed like a doomed turtle on its back. His head hit the mat with a soft thud. Sam fisted his hands and backed up. Dean should kick his ass for that. He breathed hard and waited.

The older man wordlessly gathered himself up, his expression neutral, lips tight, gaze averted. Sam's gut twisted as Dean made no effort to retaliate. _Stranger._ Sam's pulse raced and his mind screamed a banshee's cry of bitter denial. He slid back into stance, his body thrumming with barely restrained panic. He ploughed a fist toward Dean's face. It met loose air as Dean lurched back. Sam tensed for the counter strike. It did not come.

"Fight me," Sam said, his tone a low growl. Gravel over glass – it hurt just as much.

Partway through yet another unchallenging rally, Sam took his brother down. Left wrist, a sharp twist and Sam forced Dean to his knees, his left arm tight behind his back. The acrid scent of the older man's sweat, fear and desperation almost made Sam vomit. "Fight me like you mean it."

"It's a workout," Dean stated flatly.

Sam's breath caught as Dean made no effort to retaliate. Frustrated, he exerted a fraction more pressure to the trapped arm and Dean went rigid. "What are you afraid of?"

"Getting my freakin' arm broken. I don't need a matching set, dude. Seriously. Ease up."

Sam released his brother and shoved him to the floor. He backed away, clenching and opening his fists. "It has to stop."

Dean came around slowly. He nursed his left arm then absently rubbed at his shoulder. Confusion darkened his eyes and furrowed his brow. He slowly rose to his feet. "What has to stop?"

"Nightmares. Your nightmares. This. All of it." He waved one arm in a wide frenzied arc as though that could encompass everything that the entity had done to them. It came nowhere close.

"Oh." Dean folded his arms over his chest and stared at Sam. The visual contact held, but Dean's gaze held a distant focus. It broke a moment later. "This is over", he said as he turned on his heel and headed toward the bench.

Sam hurriedly caught his arm. "Why didn't you fight back? You know how it works. We don't hold back."

"Not in the mood. I'll be at the car." Dean tried to yank his arm free.

Sam tightened his grip. "You leave now and it's over. I won't come with you."

"I'm having a few nightmares. Don't turn it into a freakin' Oprah moment."

"You wake screaming my name, Dean. Begging you to forgive me for God knows what. You expect me to hit the road with you like you're not a nervous breakdown waiting for somewhere to happen. You know, I get that you won't tell me what it is you dream about. I don't need to know, man. But it has to stop. All of it. Jesus, Dean, you look at me sometimes as though I'm a freakin' ghost."

Dean's face paled, he gaped like a fish out of water then the shutters slammed down. Sam nearly landed on his butt as Dean shoved him out of the way and stalked to the bench.

Sam's knees weakened. "Jesus, what happened?"

"Fuck you, Sam." Dean ripped his keys and towel from the bench and stalked toward the door.

"Don't," Sam called. Dean hesitated and Sam choked on his own breath as memories slithered through his mind. The look in Dean's eyes, the smothering protectiveness, the nightmares… the pool. Something had happened in that pool, something that had pushed Dean over the edge. Sam did not remember it all, but he remembered the helplessness and the absolute physical reliance on Dean. He moaned softly as the implication hit home. Dean no longer considered him a physical equal – rather a victim – helpless and in need of protection. The realization struck Sam like a lump of two-by-four to the back of the head. Inequality between brothers led to resentment – inequality between hunters led to death.

Sparring would not fix it. Only physically defeating his brother would. If he took Dean down in a fair fight – proved his physical worth – he could rewire Dean's tortured psyche. He would get his brother back.

He sprinted across the gym and wrenched his brother around. He deftly snagged the keys. "You're not leaving."

"Sam—"

"We finish it here. Now."

"Give me the keys."

"No."

"Sam," Dean said, his voice a low, warning growl.

"No."

"You don't want to push me."

Sam swallowed hard then raised his chin defiantly. "Oh yeah, I do."

Dean's eyes flashed. "You—" He bit off and stepped back, his chest heaving. His gaze fell to the keys.

The desperation in the older boy's eyes made Sam ache. He swallowed hard and jingled the keys. He forced a lilting, taunting tone to his voice. "Come and get 'em, _little_ brother."

Dean's lips curved into a sneer. His hands flexed and the corded muscles in his forearms pushed tight against the tanned skin. Lethal – Panther fast and vicious when cornered. Sam swallowed hard and jangled the keys again. Dean licked his lips. Uncertainty rallied and rattled, displacing the longing that had been Dean's expression a moment before.

Sam pitched forward, shoved the keys in Dean's face and raked them sharply across the bridge of his nose. Dean took a swipe for them. Sam moved faster. He held them high, just out of reach and laughed, high pitched and slightly manic, as Dean snatched at them and missed. "Bit short there, Dean. Growth spurt let you down?"

He grunted as Dean whacked him in the side. His arm instinctively dropped. Dean snagged his wrist and wrenched it forward. Sam clenched his fingers as Dean struggled to pry them apart. The silver band of Chevy Impala…. Dean's freedom, his escape, cinched between the long digits. Sam's breath hitched as he took in the unbridled longing in his brother's eyes. Dean's grip on his wrist tightened, crushing, and Sam stifled a gasp. Dean's eyes flashed back to him and the grip loosened.

"No." Sam lashed out with his free hand, an open handed smack to Dean's face. The sound echoed, harsh and loud against the muted sounds of the gym. Sam froze as Dean's eyes widened in shock. Bitch-slap: the worst possible insult. Sam took a step back, as though that could distance him from what he had done… of what he had to do. Dean's grasp loosened. Sam pulled free. He forced a laugh, a nervous terrified sound that rattled from his lungs. Dean's eyes narrowed and their gaze held. The visual connection thrummed with anger and the barest thread of contempt. He could use that. Make Dean angry. Make him fight. Sam's queasy gut warned him of all the ways it could go horribly wrong.

He jangled the keys and forced a nauseating smirk. "Come and get me, Deanie." He spun and ran, aware that Dean followed and sickened that he did. He hit the mat and threw himself into a controlled roll. He came to his feet. Dean reached the mat and skidded to a stop less than three feet from him, feet braced, balance slightly forward – poised. Sam admired and relied on his brother's strength – he trusted it – and now he had to break it.

Sam rattled the keys then threw them to the side. Dean's eyes followed them.

"No," Sam said sharply. His brother's attention jerked back. "We spar. As equals."

He gave Dean less than a split second to process his words before he launched his first assault. Dean shifted into defense instinctively and blocked.

"Don't hold back," Sam grunted.

He threw a kick that Dean predictably reacted to. Dean held the advantage, but let it slide. Sam made him pay. He slammed the older man backwards with a kick and pitched forward with a jab that split Dean's lip and sent him to the floor. Sam shifted back, chest heaving, knuckles burning and his heart aching with a pain so deep that it seemed the organ would actually cease to function.

"Get up."

Dean stayed on all fours. He wiped at his lip, his hand shaking as it came away bloody.

"Dean, get up."

"It's over."

"No." Sam grabbed his brother's shoulder and wrenched him to his knees. "Fight me. Give me a fucking chance, Dean."

Dean stared up at him. Dark eyed and resistant. Unmoved.

Sam's desperation drove out logic and reason. His arm drew taut, the muscles burned. The limb powered forward and Sam's fear addled brain processed it all in slow motion. Dean, still on his knees, had no defense. He had to dodge the blow. Sam knew he could. But for a split second Dean did not move. The potential outcome froze Sam's blood. Recent head injuries – solid connection to the temple – the fading scar still evident. If it connected….

What happened next became a nauseating blur as Sam found himself on his back, lungs paralyzed, his brother crouched over him. Head butted, his foggy mind provided. Dean had head butted him in the stomach. He fought to draw in a breath, wheezing as his shocked diaphragm struggled to recover.

"You done?" Dean said coldly.

Sam grimaced, unable to respond. He stared up at his brother, encouraged by the burning pain through his chest. Dean had protected himself, used a move that took Sam down. If he could do that, then he could spar. Maybe they had a chance.

Sam sucked in a pained breath and came upright with a start. He wrenched out of Dean's too loose grip, bounced to his feet and used his weight to tackle Dean to the floor. The move caught the older man off guard, and by the time Sam felt him tense to fight back, he had him pinned. "Too easy," Sam said breathlessly, a thin smirk on his lips. "You can do better."

Challenge issued, Sam rapidly retreated. Moments later they circled again. Equally matched. Hunter against hunter.

Sam doggedly kept up the offensive. As it wore on, Sam's body screamed to give in. Sweat drenched clothes clung to his body, his hair plastered to his face and his recently injured thigh ached and cramped. Every time Dean landed one on him, he took a little longer to recover. No part of him seemed immune to pain and he clamped his jaw in an attempt to manage it. It both sickened and comforted him that Dean looked just as wrecked as he felt. Drenched in sweat, his chin garishly bloodied, hunched shoulders and locked elbows betrayed bruised ribs. His eyes held a distant focus and Sam knew his brother's primitive mind had taken over. The nightmares, the exhaustion… the guilt had worn Dean down. He now fought on auto-pilot, instinctual and unkempt. Still efficient and hard to match, but Sam had to. He had no choice but to win.

Dean threw a wild punch, uncoordinated and random. Sam feinted to the left and ploughed a fist into Dean's right side. Dean let out a pain filled grunt and Sam backed up, made it only one step before his knee gave out in a sudden nauseating surge of pain. Sam bit back a cry and twisted, taken down as a solid, uncompromising bulk careened into his back and smashed him to the mat. Dean's full weight came down on him. Pain exploded through his leg. It stole his breath. His pulse rocketed and adrenaline flooded his brain. He struggled against the blackness that scaled his vision, only the realization that what he had started, had to be finished, gave him the strength to fight back.

Sam violently snapped his head back and slammed the back of his skull into Dean's face. His vision momentarily blackened. He fought it off, frenziedly wrenched his caught wrist free and wedged an elbow into Dean's ribs. Dean let out a sharp grunt and the tight restriction weakened further. Sam broke free, twisted to face his sibling and shoved him off balance. As Dean fell back, Sam tackled him to the floor.

He pinned his brother, straddled him and grasped the older man's forearms in a tight lock, forcing them against his chest. Dean snarled and bucked. The jolt through Sam's still healing thigh and hip blackened his mind. His muscles trembled with exhaustion and he panted, barely getting enough oxygen to keep him functioning. "You had… enough?"

Dean struggled, his face reddening. Muscles in his biceps and forearms corded as he fought to break free. The movement jolted Sam, pushed him to the edge of nausea and then beyond.

"Give… up," Sam said, his tone desperate and raw.

"Screw you."

Sam bowed his head and tightened his grasp, eliciting a strangled gasp from his sibling. "I'm not defenseless," Sam said thickly. "I beat that fucking thing. And I sure as hell have nailed you."

Dean snarled and tried to bring his head up. Sam pushed a forearm against his chest, pinning his arms and forcing him down. Their faces were inches apart.

"We're not children," Sam gasped raggedly. "I can look after myself."

Sam blinked moisture from his eyes. Sweat he hoped, though he suspected tears. He needed this to end. Now.

"Do you get it?" Sam's voice broke and he dropped his chin to his chest. Beneath him, Dean stilled, no longer fighting.

"Sam."

"Do you get it?"

"Let me go."

"You have never failed me. You never will. You carry too much… you can't.… Don't carry this. It'll destroy us both."

"Sam…. Let me go."

Sam felt his brother tense – interpreted it as continued resistance. He applied further pressure, sickened when Dean's face paled and his eyes squinted closed.

"Sam, stop. Stop."

Sam let go immediately. He haphazardly scrambled to the side and dry retched. Tears blurred his vision. Pain drilled through his thigh and hip with a brutal and unforgiving intensity. He frantically gouged at his leg in a futile attempt to break the spasm. He took a further step, crying out as his leg collapsed beneath him. He went down on all fours, head hanging before he sank to the floor and curled on his side, fingers cinched against the spasm-locked muscle. The tight pain clouded his thoughts and muddled his vision. The spasm tightened and Sam's breaths became choked. He writhed, whimpering as he felt pressure against his shoulder that pushed him onto his back. He opened his eyes to find his brother crouched beside him.

"Jesus, Sammy. What's wrong with you?"

"Leg… cramp."

He grimaced as Dean touched his thigh. Gentle and exploratory. Sam stared up at the rafters, the horizontal steel beams shimmering and shifting as his vision blurred. Pain burned through his chest, clutched around his heart. He had to leave. To stay would get Dean killed. It had never been more obvious than now. He tried to get his trembling lips to form the words he needed to say. Nothing came out. Just ragged sobs from burning lungs.

"Sam?" The touch lifted away.

"No. Don't stop," Sam said hoarsely. He twisted his neck so he could see his brother. "I'm sorry."

Dean frowned, he still seemed afraid to touch him. "For what?"

"This.. the nightmares… it'll kill you. If I'm not… here… they'll stop."

"No."

"I'll be… okay. I can protect… myself." He clenched his jaw and pushed up onto his elbows, grimacing as the pain stretched. Needled fingers burned through his hip and into his spine. He must have gone white because Dean pushed him back and crouched beside him.

"Sam. Talk to me. What's wrong?"

"Charley… Horse," he said through clenched teeth. He again tried to reach for his leg. He met resistance, Dean's palm against his shoulder.

"Are you sure, you're… you don't look so good."

"Hmm… I'm sure."

Dean hesitated, his gaze searching. Sam held it and tried for a reassuring grin but the cramp made his lips tighten and he again tried to sit up. "Dean, please—"

"Okay, okay. Lay back. But if you've torn something."

"Haven't." He tensed and gasped as Dean felt around the muscle, then pressed down. Sam barely stifled a cry.

"Jesus, Sam."

"Do it."

"The last time you told me—"

"Just do it." His breath snagged in his chest. He held it and pushed his head back.

"Breathe, Sam. Slow and deep, you know the drill."

He did. Too well. He took deep Lamaze type breaths as Dean probed for knots to release the clenched muscle. Sam trusted the older man as he began working through the thin sweat pants. Eventually the spasm weakened and he found he could breathe. He twisted his neck and watched his brother. Dean worked with one hand, the other protectively held against his thigh. Sam licked his lips, not quite catching the significance.

Dean straightened and Sam felt him shift lower, closer to his knee, to the place where the femur had snapped and torn through his flesh. Sam sucked in a breath and caught Dean's wrist.

Dean froze, his gaze questioning. "Enough?"

Sam swallowed against dryness in this mouth. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and regarded the limb. Dean's long fingers spanned Sam's lower thigh, the thumb just over the ragged surgical scar. "Enough," he said thickly.

"You'll need to get this checked out, in case you've torn something."

"Haven't."

"You can't be sure."

"Can. If I had, you'd be unconscious. I'd have knocked you out when you touched me."

Dean fell silent, though he kept his hand on Sam's leg as though grounded by the touch. He looked up and Sam saw tears in his brother's eyes. He fought the urge to look away, instead searching for some way forward, some proof that their violent free-for-all had achieved something. So far, he did not see it. All he saw was pain, fear and loss.

Then Dean ducked his head and retracted his touch and Sam felt his insides rip apart. The distance that had been yawning between them immediately became an insurmountable abyss.

Sam tried to say something but nothing could bridge this. Dean covered his face with one hand the other still lay idle in his lap – the twice broken arm. Sam saw why Dean did not use it – a heavy swollen ring encircled his brother's lower forearm. The shape of a man's hand – his hand. He shrank away and his heart clenched with a tight, cold pain. He had hurt the only person who had ever kept him truly safe.

It had to end. He had to leave.

He struggled to his feet. Batted away Dean's hand and took a step, grimacing as the cramp sparked anew. Another step made it worse and brought fresh tears to his eyes. Yet another almost dropped him to the floor. Dean stopped him, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. Sam could have easily shrugged away. Instead he stood, head down, arms loose at his sides. He inhaled the sharply bitter scent of sweat and exhaustion: his own and Dean's.

It had all been for naught.

He raised his head, leaned a little away from his brother but did not resist as Dean pulled him back. Several long moments passed. The sound of their breaths, previously singularly harsh, slowly shifted out as other sounds filtered through his aching consciousness: the clink of barbells across the other side of the gym, the muted sound of low conversation. Sam's eyes lazily scanned, hooded and heavy, his pulse slowing as grief and exhaustion weighed him down.

The gym manager stood in the office door, a phone in one hand: poised to call police or ambulance – maybe both. "We need to leave," Sam said quietly. He again tried to shrug away. Dean pulled him back.

"I'll always be your big brother, Sam. I can't help how that makes me feel."

Sam's lips parted. He dug fingernails into the palms of his hands.

"I know you're not defenseless. I've always known that." Dean paused and drew in a shallow breath. "It's hard to see you be hurt. That thing, it… it almost killed you. I can't… I don't…. ."

"I know." And he did. He really did. He flattened his palms, stretched the fingers. He waited – shallow breaths. The moment dragged on. The manager retreated into his office. Sam saw him replace the phone on the desk before he sat down.

"Don't let this go to your head," Dean said, his voice strangely hoarse. "I taught you most of the moves you used on me. So technically I kicked my own ass." He paused then added. "That didn't quite come out right."

Sam huffed, though he did not really understand. He did recognize an underlying note in his brother's voice that reached him at a visceral level. His body physiologically responded with a flooding tingle of warm relief. He tried to sort it through in his mind, to reach a logical, conscious conclusion, but it would not compute. "Are we… okay?"

"Yeah," Dean said, his voice low and breathy. "We will be."

Sam trusted that, though he still did not quite understand. He leaned against his brother and closed his eyes. "God, we're so screwed up. Most people would just sit down and talk."

"We're not most people, Sam. We'll never be most people."

Sam's heart tugged with a need that could never be satisfied. "No," he said wistfully. "We'll never be that."

* * *

**End Chapter Twenty  
**


	21. Epilogue

**ENTITY (Epilogue)**

* * *

"You have to practice, Sam. Daily. Until it is second nature and then some." 

"Practice what?" Sam asked absently as he wiped at his flushed face and squinted against the sun that beat down on his side of the car. He wriggled on the sticky vinyl seat and lamented not accepting Dean's offer to take the Impala. At least then he would have his sunglasses and decent leg-room – and adequate space for Missouri's substantial frame. The psychic had wedged herself behind the wheel of the small car in a way that seemed guaranteed to cause discomfort.

"You want me to drive?" he offered suddenly, though even then his knees would still be up around his ears. It had to be better than having Missouri pancake herself. Why on earth did she own such a small car anyway?

"No."

The response seemed a touch abrupt and he frowned, unable to see her eyes for the dark sunglasses and forward focus. He scanned the shimmering car park but could not see what held her attention. Sighing, he ran sweaty hands over his thighs and peered over his shoulder into the back seat. Four bags of Missouri's shopping lay back there, an almost indescribable stench emanated from one of them. The longer they sat there, the worse it got.

His nose wrinkled and he brought one hand up to pinch at his nostrils. "What on earth is that?" he screwed up his face in disgust. "Smells like… creosote."

"Chapparal"

Sam glanced at her. "Stinkweed? What do you do with that? And why is it in the back-seat and not the trunk?"

He could have sworn that Missouri's shoulders stiffened. He frowned when she did not answer his questions. Sighing, he ran his tongue over his lips and suddenly wished he had picked up a drink in the shopping mall.

"It's hot," he said miserably as he shoved his hair away from his face. The brunette strands caught in his fingers, tugged at his moist scalp. Letting his hand fall into his lap, he cast an apprehensive look toward the back seat, then rolled down the window. Mid afternoon heat and exhaust fumes blasted in to mix with the suffocating stench already within the car. With one hand still on the window winder, Sam eyed the psychic. "You need to get something else?" He gestured toward the shopping mall they had just exited.

"No."

"You want me to drive?"

"No."

He shifted again as his shirt stuck to his chest and his butt felt like he had sat in a kid's wading pool – a warm one at that. Even with the window down, the air didn't move and he couldn't seem to get quite enough air in his lungs. He sucked in a three-quarter breath, wound the window back up and looked across at Missouri. "It's hot. Can we go?" he said, aware that he sounded like a whiny two year old.

She shifted in her seat, the steering wheel digging into her stomach as she turned toward him. Her dark bug-eyed sunglasses hid her eyes. "Why aren't you practicing your abilities?"

Sam's pulse hitched up and his skin crawled. This again. Ambushed, he should have known that her insistence on Dean staying behind to do chores around the house had been orchestrated. Dean had seemed suspicious, but Sam hadn't twigged. He blamed the heat from the unseasonal heatwave for melting his brain and making him miss the obvious.

"Sam, I asked you a question," she said firmly, her tone hard but not unkind.

"We've had this discussion a dozen times. You know how I feel."

"We will continue to have it until you see sense."

He averted his gaze and one hand sought out the object he had bought from the shopping mall. It had been resting in his lap. He picked it up and toyed with it, the hard rectangular shape hidden within a small paper bag that he began to methodically flatten and crease.

"You boys are leaving tomorrow, this is my last chance."

Though she sounded almost apologetic, Sam knew better than to think she would let this go. "Your last chance to corner me," Sam said hoarsely as he scanned the car park in search of a bus pickup point.

"To talk to you. To convince you that you need to practice your abilities."

He momentarily closed his eyes, took in a steadying, dry filled breath, his gut cramping as too much of the overpowering stench from the back seat invaded his system. "I told you that the entity should never have happened. That the likelihood of it was a gazillion to one," he started. Took another breath and shifted to face her.

She had taken off her glasses to reveal her eyes. Brown, welled with fear and concern, worse than staring at the sunglasses. It sparked resentment in him, and made his tone a little harder than it needed to be. "That thing should never have happened. The connection Tara made to me, the whole freaky mind thing, the transferrals it did. There is no written record of anything like it. Nowhere. It was not possible."

"But it happened."

"Yes. Once. With an unparalleled intensity. That is the worst that evil can throw at me and I defeated it. I'll do it again _if_ it happens. But it won't."

"You boys practice your sparring, beat each other so badly that you postponed your departure yet you blindly ignore your abilities." She clucked her tongue in disapproval. "They're your psychic muscle, Sam. Don't flex them and you'll…."

_Lose them?_ Sam's hands stilled on the paper bag, waiting and hopeful. John need never know. Ever. Sam could be a Winchester again. Normal. Safe.

"You have to practice," Missouri continued tightly. "Deep breathing, meditation, visualisation. Thirty minutes a day. _Every_ day."

Sweat trickled down his neck and soaked into the collar of his shirt. The paper bag endured another hard crease as John's disapproving countenance appeared in his mind. "Fine. I'll practice. When I can."

"No compromise, Sam. Occasional practice is worse than none at all."

Oh, easy choice then. None it would be. "We need to go." He shifted in the seat, the heat making his heart beat faster. Muted sound bashed against his inner ear and his stomach cramped. Still the sun bore down, lancing through the glass to scorch his bare arm and shoulder. He protectively covered the small rectangular object from the searing heat.

"Sam."

"Missouri, we need to leave."

"No. Not until you see sense." She jabbed a finger at him. "That psychic connection Tara had with you was mild compared with what else could be out there. If Dean had not brought you to me, you would have died. I drugged you to keep you safe, to give you a damned chance until Marcus could teach you how to block."

Sam swallowed convulsively and wiped at his face. His hand shook. "What is your point?"

"Have you practiced anything that Marcus taught you?"

"Marcus didn't say—"

"Marcus had no idea what you are."

"I'm a hunter and a Winchester," he said coldly. The only things John Winchester would ever accept.

"Boy, you are so much more. You have abilities and you have a responsibility to protect them."

He shoved the paper bag into the pocket of his shirt and shifted in the seat. The vinyl stuck to his jeans and the bruises on his back and sides burned with a tight, deep pain. Well earned injuries, psychological rewiring the Winchester way – effective in terminating Dean's nightmares and giving Sam back his brother. He took comfort in that, even as the world began to spin a little around the edges.

He panted softly and felt for the small packet in his pocket, reassured by the solid shape against his rubbery fingers. The bustling car park brightened, became startlingly glaring. Sam blinked and looked down.

Seemingly on a roll, Missouri ploughed on. "Beth's and Tara's exorcisms honed your ability to block and control. Enforced practice. If you had gone face to face with the entity first up, you'd be its host now and Dean would be dead."

Sam clutched at the small shape, his mouth suddenly too dry and tasting wrong. Acidic and parched. The smell of creosote lanced his nostrils, dipped into his pores, snaked down his throat and into his gut.

John Winchester's freaky psychic son.

His vision blurred and he tilted his head back, thankful for the headrest. The Impala needs headrests, he thought absently as he stared up at the peach-rotting brown interior. Pocked and faded, the fabric bore a cigarette burn near the front door pillar. It looked sort of like a face with short hair and a close cropped beard. Stubble. The mouth pulled down in disapproval and Sam swore he heard his father's bitter condemnation. Sam's stomach twisted.

"Your life will be lost without practice," she said, her tone crisp.

He felt her lean in closer and her words reverberated against his ear. He flinched and tried to draw away. Closer to the sun, and the strange headiness that prevented logical thought.

She kept on, gaining volume and intensity, the words battering. "You will be tortured and either killed or taken. And God knows what will happen to Dean. Damn it boy, you can't possibly want that."

Sam turned his head away and stared out of the window. Sun burned his face, scorched sandpaper into his eyes. He instinctively straightened to ease the cramp in his gut, one hand braced against the seat while the other remained tethered to the rectangular box hidden in his shirt pocket. It didn't help. Made it worse. Couldn't even run his tongue over his dry lips because it had stuck to the roof of his mouth, clamped like super-glue to his upper palate.

John Winchester's freaky psychic son – an unnatural disappointment.

"Twenty to thirty minutes a day. Anything less is a death sentence. Are you hearing me?"

He was. Sort of. The strange whooshing in his head and the bleaching of sensation from his extremities made it difficult to truly comprehend. He closed his eyes, his face still turned away from her. Scalding wetness burned a path down one cheek.

Through his swirling consciousness, Sam could see one thing clearly: a motel room in the middle of nowhere, John researching, Dean cleaning weapons and Sam… meditating.

"Sam?"

He stole an unsteady breath, one fist knotted at his thigh. Pressing down so hard that his bicep burned and pain flared through the muscle in his leg. Behind his closed eyes, John Winchester's disapproval and condemnation burned bright and clear.

_You leave this house… don't ever come back. _

"Sam?"

Psychic boy wonder. Freak. Unaccepted and unacceptable. _No son of mine._

"Sam? Oh God, honey, what's wrong?"

He didn't know. Couldn't answer. John's scolding tone pegged and whistled through his mind. John's disapproval. John's fear. John's hatred.

Psychic boy wonder – a freak.

… _don't ever come back._

Missouri's voice, scared and fluttering, faded.

* * *

"He fainted." 

Dean crouched by Sam's side of the car, his hand on his brother's knee, his features tight with worry. He looked across at Missouri. "How long was he out?"

"Barely even a few seconds. He just faded," Missouri said as she clutched at Sam's hand. His long fingers tightened around hers, reassuring in their clammy coldness.

"Has he said anything to you?"

"I can speak for myself," Sam said quietly.

"Missouri?"

"Yes, he's lucid. Knows what day it is, and answered all my questions," she answered. "Say's it's the heat. He seemed better after having some water."

Dean nodded, glanced up at the sky and squinted. "This weather sucks out loud. Knew you shouldn't have gone out. Either of you. C'mon, Samantha, let's get you inside."

"Sam or Sammy. Not Samantha."

"Only girls faint, so that makes you a Samantha."

"Screw you."

"Yeah, whatever." He looked past his brother and Missouri caught a quick wink and a reassuring nod.

Sam's fingers tightened once more then drifted from hers as the younger boy turned toward his brother. Dean took over then, helping Sam inside and deflecting the grousing and petulant indignation that accompanied the activity.

Missouri remained behind in the sweltering car, the stench from the chapparal making her nauseous. At least that is what she chose to blame. In fact, her conscience ate away at her insides, the recollection of her words, the cruel strategy she had tried to employ to make the boy see sense. All her efforts had failed. Last ditch. Trap him in her car and assault him with images of how he would die if he failed to practice his abilities. She gagged and clutched at her stomach, overwhelmed by her own cruelty.

"Are you sick too?"

She looked up, met Dean's hazel-green eyes, his forehead lined with fear and concern.

"Sam?"

"He's fine. Laying down. Now it's you I'm worried about." He regarded her carefully. "Are you okay?"

"Honey I'm fine," she said, and she surprised herself by actually sounding convincing.

He frowned, scrutinized her for a long moment. "Okay," he finally said, and some of the lines in his forehead faded. He ducked his head into the car. "What the hell died in here?"

His bare arm brushed her shoulder. Bruising traced the inner curve, disappeared under the sleeve of his tee. Winchester battle wounds, inflicted by his brother and worn with pride.

"You ran something over, right? Cat? Dog?" He leaned in further and the stinky herb mixed with the scent of his aftershave. "Did you gut the damned thing or something?"

Laughter bubbled just below the surface, made her dizzy with relief and unabated tension. It died quickly as she realised that she really did not understand enough in order to effect any change in their lives. Her duty had been served, her love for them had saved their lives, given them certainty and safety when they needed it the most, but now she had to let go.

She bowed her head, her eyes burning. "I'm sorry," she admitted, and her voice broke.

"Missouri?"

He crouched beside her, lay his hands on her knee. The knuckles still red and scabbed from where he had hit his brother. Sam's the same. They showed their love and resolved their differences through violence. It made no sense.

"I don't understand how to make things better," she admitted brokenly. "I don't know how to reach him."

She felt him tense, felt the shudder of fear as he leaned in closer. "Sam?" The tremor in his voice made her ache.

Words tripped over each other in their haste to get out, to save the older boy from any of the same suffering she had put his little brother through. "Sam needs to practice his abilities," she said. "He needs to practice blocking so he can protect himself… and you."

Their eyes met and locked, his confused, hers… wet, miserable and filled with remorse.

"I was trying to make him understand," she added, the words like liquid poison from her lips. "But I messed up."

Dean's hand tightened on her knee, encouraging and coaxing her to continue. So she did. She confessed it all, the horrible things she had said to his little brother, the awful way she had tried to break him. Dean's shoulders straightened, strengthened under the added burden of her confession. His eyes cleared and she watched with confusion as he smiled.

"Don't worry, it'll be alright. I'll fix it."

Her lips parted and she stared wordlessly into his eyes, confused as she recognised acceptance and gratitude. She knew then that he would achieve with his brother what she could not. "No more violence," she said suddenly, her voice breaking. "Please don't hurt him."

He ducked his head and smiled. "No. Nothing like that. C'mon, it's an oven out here and that dead racoon you got back there needs burying"

"It's chapparal."

"Shapper-what?"

"A herb. One of the ingredients in the balm I used on you boys."

Dean pursed his lips. "Oh, that explains it then."

* * *

Later that night Missouri sat with Sam on the back veranda, each ensconced in a wicker chair as aluminium wind-chimes danced a gentle lilting tune behind them. Stars pulsed as tiny fireflies in the dark night sky and a cool breeze clipped away the day's heat. She savored the pleasantness, for tomorrow the Winchester's would leave. 

She discretely observed the younger boy, relieved to note the pinch of color in his cheeks and the clear focus to his eyes. The fainting spell had scared her – and warned her of what she could lose if she continued to push against his wall of denial. Up to Dean now, but still, she couldn't help but worry.

"Sorry about today," Sam said quietly, as though aware of the observation.

She swallowed hard. "You did nothing wrong, sweetie. Don't be apologising."

He huffed, bowed his head and scratched at one arm. A faint blush heightened the color on his cheeks. "Should go and help Dean with the weapons," he said, but made no effort to move.

Silence fell again and the stars twinkled above.

"I'm proud of you, Sam," she said after a while. "For all you did." _For all you are._

He shrugged, one shouldered, his long frame reclined on the wicker chair, legs crossed at the ankles and arms loose. Maybe half asleep, she wasn't sure.

Her throat tightened. "I'm sorry for what I said to you. I shouldn't have—"

His arms drew in, not quite hugged around himself but close enough. Teetered there a moment, then his legs drew up beneath the chair and made to stand. "Should see what Dean's doing," he said, his eyes averted.

"Honey, wait a moment." She touched his arm, his skin warm, but not clammy like before.

He looked uncertain, his lips thin and gaze fixed on the back of the house. Looking for his brother – the only person with whom he felt truly safe. It both reassured her and broke her heart.

"You keep safe, Sam," she said, her words strangled. He stilled and looked at her. She continued, her voice breaking. "You and Dean, and if you need me, you call. For anything, no matter what or when, you call. Promise me you'll call."

"We will." He cocked his head to the side, his expression pained.

She realised then that she was crying. She chuckled, embarrassed and wiped one handed at her eyes while the other hand tightened on Sam's wrist. Unable to let go, unable to not feel him.

"Missouri."

The moment held and Missouri's vision blurred even more. Beyond the point of rational thought, she slid closer and wrapped him in an embrace, her arms around him. He stiffened and her chest clenched in pain.

"Sorry," she murmured, tensing to pull back.

"No. No, it's okay. It's okay." He had his arms around her then, and her head shifted until her cheek rested against his shoulder. Continued contact, the rich slightly sweaty scent of him and the lingering odor of chapparal on his clothes made her tremble. This boy was not her flesh and blood – not her son. But the profound mix of emotions that tore at her self control made it seem that way.

"We'll be okay, Missouri. It'll be okay."

His voice rumbled in his chest, offering comfort and silent strength. She clung on, gaining more than she even realised she had needed. Eventually she gathered her tremulous emotions and shifted back. Her hands moved to his biceps, the muscle rock hard beneath her touch. "You've gained muscle," she said throatily, her fingers unable to even partway span his upper arms.

"Yeah." He cocked his head, his voice soft and concerned. "Don't worry about us."

"Oh honey." Her voice scratched. "I can't not worry about you boys – it's… you're….." She sniffed, touched his cheek and thumbed gently. "I've gotten used to having you around."

"We could call you every week. Agree on a time even. Would that help?"

"Yeah," she said huskily. "It would help a lot."

* * *

They left the next morning, Dean behind the wheel and Sam riding shot-gun. Like old times. Missouri's gift of a bulging wad of cash in Dean's back pocket. Money from Marcus' estate. Taking it seemed wrong, but Missouri's insistence made rejection impossible. 

They drove in silence until well beyond the city limits. Not even the radio on. Dean finally glanced at his brother as Sam reached over and shoved a tape into the deck. He crumpled a paper bag in his hands, the sound crisp over the burning of rubber against the pavement. Several moments later, the rich throbbing base of heavy rock overpowered all other sounds and Dean's attention shifted. It took a moment for him to recognize the song. He frowned and drove one handed as he snagged the cassette cover. Metallica: the album Sam had thrown from the car months before.

"Aw, Sammy," he said throatily. He tossed the cassette cover into Sam's lap, snagged his brother by the nape of his neck and sharply pulled him close. He planted a kiss on Sam's head before the younger man yelped, swatted him and retreated to his side of the car.

"Jesus, Dean, watch the damned road."

"Watching. I'm watching." Dean leered at his brother, winked and focussed on the road. He risked a second glance, his own grin widening as he took in the shyly pleased smile on his brother's face.

Several miles later, Sam unfolded the map and studiously considered it. Conversation started then and took a myriad of contemplative, amusing and sometimes downright ludicrous turns through until dusk. They stopped just before true nightfall. Chose a motel and paid with it with money Missouri had given them. It barely made a dent in the huge wad.

"No credit card fraud for a while," Sam said quietly.

"No," Dean responded and there was a comfort all its own in that.

Morning found Dean seated, lotus-style, by the window with the morning sun warm against his back. Missouri's words filtered through his mind, forced his gaze to his still sleeping brother – his _psychic_ little brother with powerful abilities. Dean could not protect his brother from psychic attack. That lesson had been hard learned, but he could do the next best thing: keep Sam strong, physically, mentally… and psychically. That meant practice. For some reason, Sam refused. Missouri was not sure why. Dean was. He understood Sam, at least he hoped he did.

Dean drew in a breath and held it as he traced a finger down the printed page. Contortionist hand-drawn figures leered back at him and his pulse sped up. This was a really bad idea.

"Hey," Sam said, his voice thick with sleep.

Dean jerked his head up and met his brother's glazed eyes. "Hey," he said softly. "You okay?"

"Hmm." Sam's eyes closed again then reopened a second later. "Should get up."

"No rush."

But Sam sat up anyway, scrubbed at his eyes and slipped his long legs over the side of the bed. A wince, a cautious stretch and Sam stood then shuffled into the bathroom. Ten minutes later, the younger boy returned, steaming, a towel around his waist and hair dripping. He looked across at Dean and froze.

"What the hell are you doing, Dean?"

Dean pursed his lips and regarded his little brother with an amused air. "What's it look like?"

Sam's lips moved silently, then his jaw dropped and his gaze slid to the weapon bag between the beds.

"Vrksasana," Dean said hurriedly. Sam's focus shot back and raked up and down, taking in the one legged stance, the foot of the other bare pressed against his knee, arms extended skyward and palms together.

Sam took a step back.

"Tree Pose," Dean said. "Not sure what kind of a freaky assed tree it's meant to be though."

Sam's Adam's Apple bobbed and his right hand clenched in the towel around his waist.

"Yoga," Dean added. He blushed, teetered and dropped the foot to the floor.

"Missouri put you up to this."

"No, actually I came up with this one all by myself." He flashed a toothy grin and gestured to the sheet of paper on the floor. "Damned if I know how to put my leg up there though." He glanced back at his brother. "You're pretty flexible, maybe—"

"This is bullshit, Dean."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "No, it's yoga."

Sam strode across the room, one hand to keep the towel in place while the other ferreted for clothes in his bag. He had his back to Dean, his broad shoulders tense. "Missouri told you to do this to get me to practice. But you're wasting your time, man. I don't need to."

"Dude, no wooden spoon wielding woman tells me what to do."

Sam huffed. "Well, you don't have to. It's bad enough that I'm a—"

"Call yourself a freak, Sam, and so help me God, I'll—" He licked his lips and scanned the room. "Dad isn't going to…."

Sam's shoulder's stiffened and his frantic rustling stilled. Dean stopped, his skin prickling. He had hit pay-dirt. His theory correct. Sam feared John's reaction, and planned to forfeit his own safety in a twisted attempt to keep the truth from their father. All or nothing, Missouri had said – which meant that once they met up with their father, Sam ceasing to practice for even a few days could have disastrous effects. Safer not to do it at all. But hardly safe enough.

"Sammy."

"Don't change for me. Don't. Dean, just… don't."

Dean dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands. "This is not for you, Sam. It's for all the Rochelle's of the world. The things she did." He whistled. "Wow, it'd blow your mind little brother."

Sam turned, shivering now, his lips parted and eyes narrowed.

"Yoga instructor Rochelle," Dean said as confusion reigned on his brother's face. "Before… all of this. Remember?"

Sam just stared.

"You ran the car out of gas which woke me from a dream. I told you about Rochelle. Yoga instructor. I told you back then that we would take up yoga."

Sam cocked his head to the side.

"Yoga. Flexibility. Great sex." Dean shrugged and smirked. "You ought—"

"No." Sam shook his head. "No, Dean. Just… no."

* * *

Four days later, another motel and a little closer to Wyoming, but not too close to give them a reason to drag out the rock-salt, Dean sat lotus style before the window and commenced his morning routine. Ritual now – a doomed ritual that Sam deliberately ignored. His own fault, Dean realised. He had slipped up and shown his hand by mentioning their father. It had proven his theory, but in doing so it had aroused Sam's suspicion. He had to fix it, and that meant shifting his behaviour closer to the expected norm – the Dean Winchester norm. It had to look as though his new age conversion had a self-centred purpose – and that mean a return to skirt-chasing. 

"Going out," he announced as afternoon faded to evening.

Sam stood and prepared to follow.

"Alone." Dean quickly added. "Got a date. A hot one."

"Oh." Sam glanced around then sat back down. "Okay."

"You be alright here?"

"Yeah, course."

"Call me if—"

"Go. I'll be fine."

Dean's date had four legs, a green velvet covering, eight pockets and a gathering of inebriated college frat boys. Rich and easy pickings. Dean hustled for money they did not need, but he kept it anyway.

He returned to the motel room just past ten o'clock. The television flickered and blue veined fingers splayed across the walls and over the fully clothed, sprawled figure on the bed. Dean removed his brother's shoes, repositioned his lanky frame and lay a blanket over him. Sam slept on, oblivious. Dean's heart clenched. Denial of one's freaky psychic abilities took a lot of energy, it seemed.

On day ten, Dean bought a meditation CD. Double new age barrels he figured and tried to deny the panic that threatened to suffocate him. Sam took notice of that, the scything flute and wailing harpsichords a touch difficult to ignore. He looked more perplexed than angry or afraid and Dean saw that as progress.

"Daphne is into meditation," he said wryly, a false grin in place.

"Deidre," Sam corrected.

"Yeah, her too."

Sam rolled his eyes.

They picked up a gig on day twelve. A pesky poltergeist, a home cooked meal, plate of too hard biscuits and a young couple who expressed their undying gratitude and promised to name their first born son after them both. Dean shuddered: DeanSam or SamDean, either way the kid would need years of therapy. But it moved them closer to the norm – Winchester norm – and Dean saw a little more of his brother come back on line. It was a start. He continued his yoga, meditation and started to read up about Tibetan chanting.

On day fourteen after leaving Missouri's home, Sam joined Dean at the window in the morning sunshine while Dean worked through his self-taught yoga routine. Sam toyed with the meditation CD, twirling it on his finger while Dean huffed and grunted and sweated and almost tore a hamstring in an effort to impress. Sam watched with lidded eyes and Dean didn't mind the observation nor the company.

Three days later Sam finally broke.

Lured into submission by the bile inducing meditation music, Dean surmised. Whatever the incentive, Sam finally joined him at the window – as a participant not an observer.

Dean held his breath and ignored his brother, afraid that to acknowledge him might somehow break the spell. He risked a glance after several minutes and found Sam seated with his long legs crossed, ankles tucked to his buttocks, eyes closed and breathing deep and regular. Just as Dean had seen him under Marcus' direction – just as he needed to be to stay strong.

"That's my boy," Dean said quietly. John Winchester's new age sons – _both_ of them. The perfect cover for Sam.

"I don't want him to know," Sam said after the nauseating flute music finally ceased.

"Okay."

Sam looked down and gently tugged on his lower lip with his teeth. "Thanks. For this."

"Not for you. For Rochelle remember."

Sam smirked, his eyes twinkling. "Yeah, whatever dude." He paused, looked away. "Love you too, man."

Dean blushed and bit back his own smile. "Don't push it, Uri."

**-- THE END --**

* * *

Author's note: To all who have followed this story, especially those who have faithfully reviewed, thank you so much for your support and encouragement. This story has taught me a lot about writing, has introduced me to some incredible new friends (and the very best beta that any writer could ever hope for – waves to Em (A-Blackwinged-Bird)) and I hope, entertained a few people along the way. 

Until next time, thank you all and adieu! Oh, and enjoy the new season. It is exceeding all my expectations -- new characters and all! Go Kripke! ;-) Woo hoo!


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